


on your hill of calvary

by flailingthroughsanity



Series: Episode: Noctis [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Smut, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-06-10
Packaged: 2019-03-14 15:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 93,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13593234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flailingthroughsanity/pseuds/flailingthroughsanity
Summary: He doesn't know how it's possible - lying on the snow-covered grounds, staring up at a bleak, slate sky - but he's breathing, he's alive, there's no sword protruding from his chest and the taste of blood in his mouth. He doesn't know if this was some cruel afterlife or if the Astrals were raring for another joke. All he knows is that he's alive and he wants to go home, even when home now blurs into a whiskey-colored smile disappearing into the pastel horizons.(Noctis wakes up in an icy tundra and decides that the gods can go fuck themselves).





	1. barely breathing but alive

**Author's Note:**

> so, I was listening to U2, it was a slow day at work today and this happened.
> 
> Rated this as M due to violence, mostly to be safe because my level of violence may be a bit different from yours. Please expect blood, mostly.
> 
>  
> 
> (PS Noct is such a qt in Dissidia NT i am screaming)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis wakes up to an icy tundra, just when he thought he'd done the right thing and died for the world. The Astrals, it seems, do not take kindly to his wants. He decides enough is enough and makes his own way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title taken from 'breakeven' by The Script.

**on your hill of calvary; chapter I: barely breathing but alive**

* * *

 

_if there is a dark within and without,  
and there is a light, don’t let it go out _

  * ‘Song for Someone’; U2



 

 

 

 

The first thing he notices is the painful bite of light seeping through his eyelids. Noctis hisses, and he’s ready to unleash every known expletive in his vocabulary if it weren’t for the fact that his throat feels like it’s been stuffed with glass shards and sand. The hissing evolves into a fit of coughing, wracks of pain crunching under his skin as he convulses – drool and saliva running down his lips. He opens his eyes and he’s immediately assaulted with black and white flashes of light, circles and stars and shapes dancing in his vision. The urge to gag and hurl returns, and Noctis obliges: it was more of a dry heave than anything, but he felt _slightly_ better after it.

When he manages to sit upright without needing to vomit, Noctis allows himself to breathe, lightheaded and mindful of the still-present spots. There’s really nothing in his mind except for keeping himself steady and breathing, and he hasn’t have half a mind to even test anything else out. So, he waits and he breathes and when the spots start to lessen, the distinct shapes of his environment begin to form.

The next thing he notices is that he is _cold_ . Not just on-a-rainy-day-and-I-forgot-my-jacket kind of cold. Not the kind of cold that he gets when he takes a morning shower. It was cold _cold_ . Icy. Frigid. Lethal _cold_.

Not unlike a Glacian’s wrath.

The thought has his entire body tensing and Noctis’ vision finally clears out into white and grey. All around him were fields of white, craggy stones bunching up from the monochrome under a drab sky. There was light – muted and dim – and it took Noctis a moment to realize that what he had thought were persistent specks floating in his vision were, in fact, _snowflakes_.

Snowflakes were falling from the sky, down to the earth below, and Noctis shivered at the realization, looking down and seeing the disarray of his clothes. There was something familiar about them – about the cut and the texture, the sheen of the cloth and the occasional gold threading. They were a mess, though. The right sleeve was cut, harshly, by the elbows – leaving his forearm bare — and his pants were a mess of black cloth, grime and snow sticking to it. Something was sticking to his back, and he turned to see whatever remained of a cloak that was tied and locked to a pendant around his throat. With a bolt – and it certainly did not help his questionable sense of balance at the moment – Noctis realized that he was wearing his royal garbs. It was all familiar, something he’s seen his own father wear, a little too often.

When a slight breeze ruffles his hair and brings gooseflesh to his skin, Noctis feels himself shudder. He looks around, his breath coming out in puffs visible in the cold, and sees nothing but snow and rock and he starts to feel an impending wave of helplessness as his body shivers some more.

Still, he could either sit here and die a cold death or he could, at least, try to look for shelter and die a slightly _warmer_ death. Both were horrible outcomes, but his father had always lamented that he was far too stubborn for his own good. When he feels that he could finally breathe without gasping, Noctis slowly starts pulling his leg out from under him and finds it intact, no discomfort at all except for the ice gnashing at his skin, and manages to crouch on the ground, snow crunching under his boots.

“Atta boy.” He says, letting out a breath as he slowly rises to a stand, expecting his legs to give out and for him to fall flat on the snow. His legs do tremble a bit, and his vision pans out to black and white once more, but as he bites his lips, _hard_ , and focuses on breathing, Noctis manages to stand upright.

“Shit.” He still says it though.

Now that he’s managed to regain his footing, Noctis surveys his surroundings again. He squints his eyes, trying to see if that distant outcrop was really there or if it was just some offshoot of his imagination. Maybe it was a bit of both, he thinks, and he doesn’t realize he’s barked out a laugh until his throat complains and he starts coughing again. The cold certainly wasn’t helping.

The first thing was finding shelter and warmth. Looking up at the grey sky, he had no idea if it was morning, noon or an hour until dusk – and from what he could remember of the survival lessons that were imparted on him by…

He frowns, a throbbing pain at the back of his head as his memory realigns.

A bird. Crow? Raven? Hawk? No, no. Black – maybe, he thinks – and amber? There was light, maybe yellow eyes, a grinning face. Pain, over and over. Swords. Glowing. Swords inside him? Or was it fire? Or ice, in his veins and out of his skin? Against his face, or the rain. Smoke. Rubble. A ring. Explosions. His father.

His knees almost buckle as everything is set into place and Noctis feels himself wheezing, hand to his chest and to his head as the throb grows into blinding pain. Memories return, and fuck, he thinks.

He was dead.

Was.

Noctis’ lips part, pain itching to be screamed, but no sound comes out, his breath cut short as he recalls the grinning face of a demon – Ardyn – and the bright light of the Kings of Lucis smiting him to dust. He remembers the sword plunged into his chest, by the ghost of his father, and he remembers the faces of his friends, hand to their chests.

He had died.

The thought was staggering but, at the same time, it _wasn’t_. It was the pain in his chest and his head that almost had him collapsing back into the snow, but the memories playing in his head were both distant and visceral, like a haze had fallen over them yet he could still make out each detail perfectly.

And the light – eyes wide, he looks up, at the stormy skies but there was _light_ . This was no artificial light brought on by floodlamps. This was actual light, light from the sun – and he remembers how _dark_ the world had been, how suffocating the darkness was, how it looked like they were all trapped in a black hourglass and he couldn’t breath—

“Fuck. Damn it. Shit.” He says, more on reflex than anything as he feels his eyes prickle at the receding pain, feels himself gaining more ground with his balance. Gladio would be laughing his ass off at how wimpy he was being. Gladio wasn’t here, though.

Where was here, exactly?

He presses his hands over his body, especially over his chest, and finds nothing – no wound, no stab where the sword should be and, well, if there really was a sword halfway stuck in his chest _and_ he was walking around to show it, he’d be pretty far gone by then.

More questions pop up, and more memories start to come back, but the pain was manageable – or as manageable as it was while he was _freezing_ and that was his priority, for now.

Shelter, warmth, maybe food, and then he could have his mental breakdown.

He looks around, tries to find some semblance of direction, and on the third turn of his gaze, he sees that what he had originally thought to be more optical illusions was a faint outline of a…structure. Building? Mountain? Sleeping behemoth?

Did behemoths even like the cold?

He’ll have to ask Ignis that, once he makes it back.

_Make it back to where, exactly?_ Asked a traitorous part of his mind and Noctis scowls. He’ll deal with that later.

Still, whatever it was in the distance might be something he could use. Could be shelter or a sleeping beast or probably a dead Glacian’s fingernail. Maybe. The thought was stupid enough as it is. Speaking of that—

“Shiva? Gentiana?” He whispers, hoping against hope and listening to everything and nothing. There was no other sound, save for his breathing and the occasional breeze that had him trembling. “Bahamut?”

A part of him expects to hear the Draconian’s drumming voice and his ancient words. Another part told him he was being wishful when all he gets, in response, is another breeze.

Disappointment – maybe even fear – wells up as his calls to the Astrals leave nothing but silence. Typical. They ask him to save the world and they don’t show up when he _needs_ them. Still, what were gods if not assholes?

Shaking his head, as if to dispel his thoughts, Noctis returns to the shape in the distance. Whatever, he’ll make it on his own. He’s nothing but stubborn, anyway.

Taking a step forward, Noctis grins – feels his lips cracking and, wow, that’ll sting like a fucker if he could so much as _feel_ it — as he manages to do so without doing an impromptu tumble. He won’t even look good doing it, he’ll leave the gymnastics to Ignis. He takes another step, and yeah, he could do this. Another, and another, and another. Just like riding a bike.

He’s done this before, back when he was young, back in Tenebrae. He could this again.

Noctis crosses his arms, stuffs his bare hands into the warmth of his sides and he walks slowly, keeping his head down, hair falling into his face. Snow continues to fall and he tries to not let the panic set in – because he has no idea what time it is, do daemons still exist? Regardless, he’d pretty much turn into ice before night would set and that did not sound _fun_ at all.

His steps are slightly uneven, but stable, and the crunch of the snow under his boots and the slightly chill of the wind and the occasional gasp that escapes in the midst of his breathing play a melody in his ears, and he trains his eyes on the shape in the distance.

That seemed so far away.

That he slowly started to think wasn’t even a structure.

“Nope, nope. Gotta—“ He chats, to himself or to the air, or to the Astrals probably looking down on him in cruel amusement. “Gotta keep goin’. One, two, three. Yup.”

He keeps himself talking, even if it’s stupid things like laundry, and how he starts remembering all the times he’s complained about how hot Lestallum was and how he could pretty much jump into a bonfire at this point and not even care. He counts from one to a hundred, and he starts singing as he leaves a track in the snow, making his way forward. Ahead. Onwards.

He doesn’t look back, not to count the steps he’s taken because it’ll remind him, and he’ll feel even more helpless than he does now. There was a time for a breakdown later. Right now, he has to get to that thing in the distance.

Why the fuck was it so far away?

He’s humming and humming, rubbing his hands down his sides, and he faintly realizes that it’s that stupid chocobo song that Prompto loves to sing so much and, damn it, he isn’t going to die in the middle of fucking nowhere singing about riding chocobos.

And now he’s singing about stairs.

And he’s changed the lyrics from stairs to snow.

“Forever, they go on. On and on and on.”

Maybe the universe had enough of his rambling and idiocy because, thank Shiva, the wind that had been steadily blowing in the last few minutes (or hours? Days?) had disappeared, and the snow seemed to have stopped falling. Without weird shit in his face, and no longer squinting, Noctis feels himself grinning at realizing that, yeah, that thing in the distance wasn’t him going crazy. Or maybe he was really crazy and everything was just a marble of him in the middle of a breakdown but, at this point, he’ll take his chances with the structure-that-looks-like-a-structure-and-hopefully-not-a-sleeping-behemoth.

With renewed vigor (or what’s left of it, anyway) Noctis trudges on, thanking whatever made him wear boots in his final battle because if he had worn those dress shoes, he’d need an amputation by the end of it. He doesn’t care how Prompto will look at him, all betrayed and shit, but whenever he gets to wherever, ice cream was so getting banned. Yup, first royal decree: anyone who so much as suggests ice cream will get his ass kicked into the nearest prison cell.

As he draws nearer, the outline grows larger, and with each forward step, Noctis feels his hope growing as it starts to resemble something rectangular, not rough and rugged like an outcrop, but something manmade. The light had not changed, and the wind had not picked up and his stomach hadn’t made any noise yet, and soon he’ll need to find something to eat, but – for the moment – he was nearing his first goal. His first chance.

Ignis may have a plan for a situation like this, but he wasn’t Ignis. What he needs is to take one chance, and the other and the other and the next. It’s the best he can do, at this point.

It was covered in snow, that’s what it was, probably from a hailstorm (or just a storm). It was large, almost like a two-story building in his estimation, and from what he could see of it not covered in snow, it was metallic. A dark green? Maybe. Black? Probably.

It looked mechanical, and there was a growing hunch at the back of his mind but he needed confirmation, first. Slowly making his way around, he sees a partly-open rampart, held up by what seemed to have been fallen steel beams and scrap metal. It looked precarious, as if a single touch could have it all topple down. When he approaches the nearby side and wipes the snow away with a grimace, the weight in his stomach jumps at recognition.

It was a Magitek carrier. Damn Niffs.

It was ancient, though, and whatever paint he could see was already fading, turning to rust. The engines, from what he could see, were long dead and with the amount of snow covering it on the _out_ side, he can pretty much guess that it was, more or less, abandoned. Still, a carrier ship meant troops, and troops meant weaponry and armor. Things he would need—

Weaponry.

Wait.

Hand still on the metal, Noctis closes his eyes. He tries to call on the power that has always resided under his skin, a mark of his line’s legacy. He was a Lucis Caelum. He may not have been King for a long, barely enough to even fill the first few lines of a textbook page, but he was still a King. He was his father’s son.

He recalls the feeling of static, that current of energy that had always been lurking in his veins and he remembers the way it feels – to call his sword from the warp, to feel it materialize in his hands and to feel the energy pulsing in his fingertips. He waits with bated breath, expecting the thrum of power to explode and coalesce into the blade that had always been a part of him.

Nothing.

“Come on.” He whispers through gritted teeth, voice hoarse. He taps into that energy, waiting for it to surge and meet his call. He could see the dirt scrubbed dry into the skin of his hand, fingers still splayed, waiting to see that familiar silver gleam of the hilt.

Nothing.

“Damn it, come _on!_ ”

His frustration escapes in wheezes as his eyes prickle once more.

“ _Fuck_ , come on!”

With a shout that burbled into a cough, Noct balls his hand into a fist and punches the metal, not caring about how weak the punch was or how the pain his knuckles felt travelled from tip to tip. He closed his eyes, letting his forehead rest against the cold metal as the reality of the situation sunk in, falling to a knee as a sob escapes his throat.

The armiger was closed, he had no idea _how_ or _why_ , and he was in the middle of nowhere, and everything was fucking freezing and—

Shit, shit, shit.

He wanted his dad. He wanted his mom. He wanted his friends. He didn’t want to be here. He was supposed to be dead. He was _dead_ and now he’s alive (he’s not even sure, at this point) and he was freezing to death.

“God _damn_ it.” It comes out as a breath and he stands back up, letting himself rest against the metal. Doesn’t matter. He needs to get out of here. He needs to go out and look at the world. He needs to know.

An image of three men flash in his mind and he gasps.

He needs to know where they are. He needs to know if they’re still alive, if they survived Insomnia, if they had gone to live on without him. He needs to know, even if the thought is _terrifying_. He doesn’t know why it’s so important but, damn it, maybe there doesn’t need to be a reason. He just wants to know if his friends are alive.

He wants to know if Prompto still has the stupid goatee he’s been growing, if he still sings that stupid chocobo song and if he still trips on flat ground. He needs to know if Prompto still has his camera glued to his hand, if there are a million photos of their friends’ faces in it, if he still obsessively cleans his guns with a frightening precision that was less Prompto and more of the childhood-ingrained training done when he was a Magitek trooper stand-in. He wants to know if Prompto still hates stairs and anything that involved moving more than he normally would, and if he still bugs Ignis and—

Damn it, he wants to know where Ignis is. He wants to know how Ignis can still keep up without his vision, how he still smiles the same way at him the last time they saw each other, like it wasn’t Noctis’ fault (and it was, wasn’t it? When he traces the line of action back to the source, his name is always at the end of it). Does he still cook, and if he does – how does he do it? He remembers Talcott telling him that Ignis keeps to himself nowadays, and he wants to know: why? Did his disappearance tear them all apart? When he slumbered for a decade inside the Crystal, was it the final straw for all of them? For Prompto, and Ignis and Gladio—

Fuck.

Gladio. His Shield.

Shit.

_Damn it_.

Noctis wipes away the tracks on his cheeks, rubs the skin dry until they’re raw.

Gladio fucking Amicitia, who had grown his stupid hair until he could tie it back, who had more scars than before – and these scars, they were no longer badges of his fealty but of his honor now – who had a laugh that could wake the dead, and a grin that was far too boyish for a man as tall and as big as him, who kept placing his arm around Noctis’ shoulders and pulling him close, partly to grin, to whisper orders in his ear, to look at him close and see if he was still standing strong and, damn it.

The last thing he had seen of Gladio was on the hill overlooking Insomnia, over a campfire, and the weight in his chest was far too heavy for it to be anything like friendship, the way that amber gaze had not stopped looking at him the moment he had stepped off the truck with Talcott in Hammerhead, and all Noctis was able to do was keep his mouth shut as he took in that amber gaze, an unfamiliar shine to them, from his Shield who had _never_ buckled, not when Insomnia fell, not when news of their own parents’ demise reached their ears, not when Ignis had lost his vision.

_Keep it together, champ_ — and Noctis stands, breathes deep. He can’t afford to be weak, not now. He can’t afford to be weak anymore. Not now. He has a mission. One chance after the next and the next until the chances are spent.

He looks up at the half-open rampart, held up by the fallen beams from the part of the carrier that had took the brunt of the impact on crashing – that’s what he thinks, anyway. Military strategy and espionage was never his thing, he has no idea if the carrier crashed due to an attack or technological failure. The important thing to him was that inside could be weaponry. Or Magitek troopers.

Either way, this is was just one more chance in a line of finite chances.

He looks at one of the beams, set against the ramp. If he could push it away – move it, or break it — it’d loosen the ramp enough for him to slip inside. The ramp looked loose enough for it, anyway. That, or it could also fall and squash him like a bug.

“Chances, huh?” He asks himself, and he could already imagine Gladio laughing at the stupidity of his plan – right before jumping in because he would never let Noctis do anything stupid by himself.

He judges his footing, and spies on the beam again. It was rustic all over, who knows how long it had been out here in the cold? All he needed was to push it out of the way – ignoring the part of him questioning his sanity, sounded a bit like Ignis too – and that, as they say, was that.

“Let’s mosey, then.” He whispers to himself and, well, it was now or never. Do or die.

Angling his shoulder, his left, so that his arm would take the brunt of it, Noctis shifts his weight on the balls of his feet, looks up at the ramp once more, making sure that – should it fall – he would be able to jump to the side and away from it. Breathing in deep, nodding to himself, he grits his teeth and steps forward, putting all his weight into the push. His shoulder hits the beam and the thud has his arm shaking from the impact but he pushes on, leaning on it until only one leg was left holding him up.

It came slowly, a low grating sound. He grimaces as the sound grows into a screech and he feels the beam under him move, slowly – bending backwards – and the sound of the ramp loosening and, eyes wide, he huffs out a laugh as his mad plan was _actually_ working. That was a first, to be completely honest, and—

Shit—

Oh no—

His foot slides on the snow, throws all his weight and surprise on to the beam, and the creak he hears is ominous. He falls on the side of his hip and he _winces_ (because crying out in pain aren’t for kings), manages to settle himself back up with a hand on the freezing ground and—

There’s another creak and the earsplitting sound of something grating, steel on steel, and a crack that was _scary_ and Noctis turns to see the beam had broken in half due to the added surprise of his weight and, wait, that wasn’t good, was it?

He looks up, just in time, as the beam falls away and the ramp it had been holding up swayed dangerously, before one part of it holding up broke away and—

Noctis pushes all his strength into rolling away, ignores the once-receding pain that had evolved into a blundering drumbeat in his head, as the last part holding the ramp up broke and the entire thing fell. Snow was on his face, in his nostrils, even his mouth, but he ignores it as he rolls away from the disaster unfolding right beside him. More beams fell after the ramp, cracking and tumbling on the ground and there was the resounding echo of it ringing in his ears and—

Noctis cries out as a beam fell and hit him on the shoulder, the pain making him see white, before the beam rolls away and he gasps out curse after curse, his arm numb but trembling. His head felt like a dozen Anak decided that he would be a good trampoline and, okay, he was still alive. Still breathing. Still kicking, but – jeez – did everything hurt.

Damn it. Shitfuck. _Wow_.

The crash still echoed in his ears and he took a while just to breathe and curse himself for his stupid plan, later noticing that it had grown silent again. He turns his head, ignores the spike of pain as he moves his right shoulder and sees the ramp all but flat on the ground, steel debris strewn across the snow and the gaping maw which made for the carrier’s launch pad. It was fucking open. Heh. Good to know.

He rests himself back on the snow, watching his breath turn into puffs. He looked up at the grey sky – ooh, snow was falling again, _pretty_ – and the pounding in his head refused to go away and the snow banking around him was numbing the pain, sort of. With how clammy his hands are and how it took a while for him to stop breathing like he’d been underwater far too long, Noctis thought that the idea of freezing to death was almost appealing and, nice, the swath of the clouds above him was making his eyes flutter—

Yeah, gotta get back on his feet now.

He turned on his side, hands on the snow and pushes himself off it, swaying a bit at the pounding in his head coming back, full-force, no holds barred or bar holes or bars. He wants to shake the snow off his head, but he thinks it’ll just make the headache worse or maybe he’ll shake his head off his shoulders ( _now_ , there was a thought) so he relents with wiping the snow off his face. He holds his hands back up his face and, wow, he can still bend his fingers, and not wanting to test their resolve, blows hot air into them.

Noctis slowly makes his way through the wreckage, making sure not to step on any of the beams or the large screws that were shaken loose or the ramp itself – even though the flat underside of it looked tempting enough for him to lie on and close his eyes and—

One, two, three. One step forward, yup, and there goes another.

He moves around the ramp and heads to the opening of the carrier, where – if his memory would serve him right for once and not turn to amber eyes and inked skin — Magitek troopers would be settling in, waiting to be given orders to terrorize and enslave and lob the head off a slippery then-Crown Prince of Lucis.

A hand on metal flooring of the hold, Noctis congratulates himself for only grunting in irritation at the spike of his headache as he manages to jump up the ledge. The sound of his boots hitting the metal panels echo in the quiet of the hold, and he reaches a hand out to steady himself, dimly looking around.

There were crates stack against the far wall, some of them still holding up while a few had been thrown about, broken and their contents spilling out. There were bullet rounds on the floor, almost like corn kernels spilled across a dark green floor, but he wasn’t able to spot any guns. Wires and tubes had fallen from the upper level of the carrier, either torn apart or just hanging listlessly, and Noctis remembers the troopers attached to them, recalls how they had stood like statues until a directive was sent, their red eyes glowing to life as Noctis bombarded ship after ship in what had been a very eventful train ride on the way to Gralea. He looks to the left, and he freezes.

There, by the corner, with a sword stabbed into its chest, head down, arms lax, was a Magitek trooper.

Noctis seizes, almost stepping back, waiting for the trooper to awaken and start hacking at him, with a speed far too unnatural, and he did not have his armiger or his command of the warp to defend himself. Nothing happened, except for the creaking sound made by the flooring under him as he shifts his weight and he relaxes.

The trooper was flat against the wall, and he spies the uniform set on it, hiding the metal plating below. If he could remove it, it’d be a better shield against the cold than his own clothes – he’s sure his ancestors would roll in their graves at the thought of a Lucian king wearing Niflheim colors, it’s a good thing Noctis wasn’t _that_ patriotic – even if they were too large for him. Anything was better at this point.

Still, that would mean getting close to it. Close enough to pull the sword out from its chest and rip the clothes off it. Something about hits uncomfortably close to home for Noctis, taking in the details of the sword stabbed into its chest.

His hand comes up to rub at his own chest and his fingers do not find the open wound he expected to be there.

Rubbing a hand down his face, Noctis buckles up and steps forward, making sure to keep his right arm poised just right, still feeling the sting of it from when the beam fell on him. He steps to the side of the trooper, one foot in between its askew legs, head down, mask in place. He can almost imagine a human being in its place and he grimaces.

He remembers what Talcott had said, about how daemons were just people infected with the Starscourge and the only mercy they had for it was death and he feels the bile gurgling in his stomach.

Noctis reached out with his hand, banishing the thought and holding the hilt of the sword tight. He may not have the armiger anymore but he still knows how to use a blade and, at this point, having a weapon was more valuable to him than anything else. Tightening his hold on it, Noctis expects resistance as he pulls it out but, almost like butter, the blade slides out of the trooper’s body with just a slight crunch of metal and, Noctis’ eyes widen, as something red oozes out of the chest.

The blade shines in the dim light, steel, and its end was streaked in red.

Shaking his head, he feels an apology on his lips but he refrains. He doesn’t know why he stops – maybe because the trooper was no longer human? Did that make them any less deserving of an apology? His head hurts, and he leaves the question unanswered, settling the sword by the side as he kneels, ignoring the gush of red seeping into cloth of the trooper’s uniform.

He pauses there, stares at the remains of the trooper and asks himself if he’s about to loot a corpse. Sure, the corpse is only partly human, and dead men tell no tales and they certainly can’t hurt you. Still.

Let nobody ever say that he didn’t do his fucking duty to his kingdom.

He rolls his right shoulder, and the sting of pain that accompanies it has dulled enough for him not to hiss out. He’s still annoyed, though, but that was beside the point. He slowly extends his hands out, fingers clasping the buttons upfront, slowly unraveling them from a mess of death and experimentation and nightmares and plain human cruelty and he keeps an eye on the dim yellow eyes of the trooper, expecting them to flash red and grab him by the leg like a freaking horror movie. Pretty much Zegnautus Keep all over again, except he wasn’t a hero on the way to save the world, but a vulture picking through the corpses of a battlefield.

He wonders how his loving people would react knowing their once-king was now scavenging for clothes off a dead trooper like a common criminal.

Fighting a body out of a coat with one hand while the other kept it from toppling over, not to mention that reduced physical stamina, was somewhat hard _er_ than Noctis would ever admit. Especially to Gladio. Gladio could pretty much thrust his hand into a trooper’s chest and pull its heart out if he wanted to. Fucking show off.

Jeez, he knew troopers were heavy – what with being robots and all – but this was just out of lef— oh, no.

Blood spills faster through the hole in its chest, down the jagged-edged dent on the plate by its right side and it doesn’t even matter how many times Noctis had seen people bleed out (he’s quite familiar with lying in a pool of his own blood while a daemon stalks about him); still, his stomach turns, and he can feel the urge to heave once more and he knows it’ll be the breakfast he had from two eternities ago.

_Don’t do it. Don’t even_ think _about it, Noct_. He thinks about what Gladio would do in his situation – hands pretty much bloody and the stench overpowering and he knows he can’t puke, not right now. He sits as still as he can and tips his head back, breathing with his mouth open like a dog.

He swallows, laboriously, and looks down at the blood splattered trooper. He’s okay. He’s gonna be okay. He has to be, not like he has a choice otherwise.

He bites his own tongue and yanks hard on the sleeve, pulls it upward first and then downward to dislodge the cloth from the shoulder and upward once more, because _what the hell, did they glue this_ on?

A lax, unmoving robotic slips out of the sleeve, the entire thing turns and shifts at the force he used to pull it close and the body pitches forward into a roll, and Noctis pulls at the cloth back and up, doesn’t notice the other arm falling out and the entire thing just collapses onto the metal ground, blood pooling out – almost black in color – in the darkness of the hold. He stares at the head of the trooper, mask still in place, on its side and the dull yellow robotic eye is looking to the left but Noctis feels like it’s looking at _him_ , and judging him and _why, why, why?_

He swallows, and swallows and spits off the side. His eyes don’t leave the trooper’s, not even when he clutches the coat to his chest and feels the warmth of the blood (why was it still warm?) against his chest, his arms, in his hands and was it on his face?

Still, it doesn’t matter. Nothing else mattered. He told himself this over and over as he grimaces, pushing one arm into the sleeve of the coat and ignores the blood setting against his skin and, yeah, he just has to make sure that he doesn’t stuff his own hands into his mouth when they’re bloody and disgusting and, oh, what if it was daemon’s blood or—

He looks at the mask, and a chilling curiosity runs through his head, overlapping the ache that had finally, _finally_ dulled to a minor throbbing he could ignore. He looks at the fallen body again and, no, it was too tall, far too tall and Noctis had always been taller than Prompto, and it was only the ridiculous blond hair that looked more like a chocobo’s butt than any acceptable hairstyle that made Prompto seem taller and, no, he’s not gonna imagine what’s under the mask are blue-purple eyes and an easy grin and _you saved me because you cared, right_ and, shit, he’s going to hurl. No, he can’t.

“Fucking deal with it, champ.” He says to himself, not realizing he had backed himself up against the wall.

A glance to the other side has him spying on a couple more crates and he pushes himself off, crouching a bit just to grab at the sword beside the trooper, holding it against his leg as he makes his way across the hold, ignoring the stench against his skin, it wouldn’t be the first or last time he had someone else’s blood on his hands.

He falls to a crouch as his knees hit the edge of the crates, and his free hand is splayed against it, feeling for a lock, a latch – something to pull it open – and there is, something shines in his vision and he looks close to see the lock busted open, sees the soot and the blunt lines against it, seems it had been shot. His right hand is clumsy as shit, he’ll say it’s because of his arm and the way it stings, but this was nothing compared to training with Gladio anyway or when he was sucker-punched by a hobgoblin or two in a stupid dungeon they had gone because Cindy found a stupid car part in it and, wait, no, wait, really – his hand pats and searches and rummages through the sheets of paper and the random bullet rounds and – were those rations? Please, please, _please_ let them be rations – and his fingers fall on to something cylindrical and he pulls it out past the others and—

Huh. _Huh._ Fuck the Astrals and their cryptic bullshit, but—

Maybe—

Just maybe—

Maybe the coincidences aren’t _cruel_ , maybe—

Maybe what turns up was the torch that you had been praying for if you had thought it would have mattered in the slightest.

He doesn’t know who sends his mental cry of thanks, of praise, he’d start an entire festival around this entire thing, maybe it’s towards the Astrals, or maybe just the Astral of Magical Torches That Pop Up for Magically Surviving Kings That Shouldn’t Be Alive In The First Place and, yeah, maybe his ‘thank you’ sounds a little bit like ‘screw all of you’ thrown somewhere overhead, but, it doesn’t matter.

He glances back at the outside light and he frowns, sees the light even dimmer than before and confirms that if he doesn’t find something suitable to burn, his sorry ass will be a frozen _dead_ ass and he has no idea why he’s still alive in the first place but he’s not ready to test out if he can do a second resurrection magic trick. There was still the question of daemons, and even the beasts that would prowl on the snow, but either way his chances were null, at this point. If daemons do still exist, at least he can cut off a limb or two before dying. With a roaring fire nearby, preferably.

Noctis pulls out the torch and places it at the side, makes sure it’s not within range of the blood still pooling out of the trooper – he’ll need to deal with that soon – and, next, comes the rations and he’ll take whatever it is at this point and all of the sheets of paper inside are thrown out, eyes raking over each page just in case there might be a phone number for an Astral who can conjure a king-sized bed with thick sheets or just a bed or just sheets if that’s what it takes. It’s all gibberish, is what it is, and there are numbers and words he could not possibly understand and, yeah, those were going to the inevitable bonfire that his survival was hinging on and—

Plus, dying was expensive. Flowers were expensive and a royal funeral, more or less, costs a small national treasure and, hey, wasn’t Ignis always telling him to be more mindful of his spending? So, yeah. Better just make it and live.

He questions the integrity of going out and looking for another shelter, what with the coming evening, and decides that the part of his brain giving him suggestions like that should be shut down, permanently. Sure, he wasn’t really raring up to sleep next to a dead body, but he’d take that over turning into an ice cube in the tundra outside.

Still, first things first. He picks up the torch, and holds it close. He spies the trigger, loops his finger around it, and he pushes it down, expecting nothing because that’s the way his luck was going, anyway, so might as well beat it to the pun—

A small flame flickered, blue to yellow, before dancing merrily, side to side and Noctis lets go of the trigger, watching it disappear.

He only realizes that he’s laughing when he feels his chest heaving, and no sane man should be that ecstatic at the sight of a flame. Well, throw them into an icy death valley and, hell, even a rock would jump around at it.

Putting the torch away once more, Noctis collects the sheets of paper and piles them altogether. There was no way he was building his little fire out in the open where a little wind could kill it in a matter of seconds. Doesn’t matter if he’s still (maybe) chummy with Shiva, he’s not taking any chances. So, he settles with having it at the edge, by the corner, of the hold, a few feet from where the ramp was. The ledge was high enough for the wind to swerve around, and he hadn’t felt as cold as he did outside than he did on the inside. Just had to make sure that the entire thing doesn’t explode the moment he does light a fire.

He sets the papers aside and goes about, slowly, kicking away the metal tubes into the snow, like dead snakes on white paint, and proceeds to pick the bullets on the flooring and, yeah, those things are going out too. While rummaging through the crap inside the hold, he sends another prayer up to whatever god was listening as he comes across two more crates – both filled with ammunition but it wasn’t that he was interested in, the crates were _wooden._ He spends the next few minutes picking what seemed to be a million bullets, his back bent, as he throws one after the other and almost turns it into a game of whether he can throw a bullet out so far or not. He doesn’t, though, mostly because his arm still hurts like a fucker and, seriously, playing by his lonesome was just sad.

When he’s managed to mostly set up a space for the fire without fear of anything combusting in his immediate vicinity, Noctis sighs and turns around to acknowledge what he had been dreading in the last few minutes. The sky outside had gone from its dreary grey to a somber dusk, the horizon slowly turning dark. It was nearing night fall, he was sure of it, and with the noticeable ache in his stomach present, it was about time as well.

Seeing no other way around it, Noctis approaches the trooper and bends down to pull at one hand, feeling the metal fingers in his own and he swallows, slowly pulling the body across the hold. The sound of the bare metal armor against the steel flooring has him grimacing, the grating noise like nails on a chalkboard as red stubbornly follows the trailing body, like a macabre painting and, yeah, not cool at all. He’s always thought his first murder-body disposal would involve Gladio doing all the hard work and him just mopping after. The irony sits on his throat and bubbles into a laugh as he hits the ledge and stops, catching his breath.

With a grunt, he hooks one leg over the ledge and rests his other foot on the hold under it and carefully bent to put the trooper’s arm around his neck, ignores the wetness trailing against his shoulder and, more or less, heaves the entire thing out. He’s gasping by the end of it, the trooper’s mangled corpse awry on the snow, but it was finished, and that was important. He can’t do anything for the blood left in a disgusting trail from corner to edge, but it will have frozen over by the time morning comes and he hopes, by then and if he survives the night, he’ll be long gone.

He works on setting the wooden crates on the spot now, using his sword to hack it off from its parts. His strikes aren’t as powerful as they usually were, but they do the job, even if the cuts are crooked enough that Gladio would have a fit. He doesn’t know if the wood used was firewood or if they would even burn _well_ at all but beggars can’t be choosers, and beggar kings will have to make do with scraps. He collects the papers again and slowly rips them apart, shredding into smaller pieces, setting them around the wooden panels of the crates. He’s left a number on the side, like what Gladio had told him once upon a time, in case the flames weaken and let it be known that he took those classes seriously (or as seriously as a sixteen year old Prince with an unhealthy fascination with his Shield rather than his classes could).

Outside, evening had finally settled and Noctis is so glad he’s not out there, in the near pitch-black darkness, making his way on foot and through the snow and with the wind picking up. The wind was blowing stronger, he could see the snow float up and blown away, could hear the hiss of it in his ears but the direction was not parallel to the carrier, the strength of it hitting against its side. An occasional draft would seep in, he could feel it against his cheeks, but mostly it blew past the carrier, into the darkness outside.

Bending back down to the space of his bonfire, he turns to grab the torch and sets on starting his fire before his hands turn to ice. He sets the exhaust of the torch against the paper under the wooden panels and pulls the trigger, watches it catch fire. He sets the torch a bit further, afraid he might accidentally sweep it into the fire and – yeah, that would be terrible, honestly – and he leans close to the growing flame, blowing low and softly, tempting it to grow stronger, for more paper to catch fire so he can finally heat the rations and, okay, stomach, just _wait_.

When the fire flickers and crackles and finally starts growing stronger, he expects something else to catch fire and turn him into a mini-shower of bone and skin, but what happens is the heat of the flames licking against his cheeks, the warmth returning to his fingers and his vision clearing out.

Sometimes—

Sometimes, he’s just _really_ lucky.

Gladio used to say that luck was just something people said to excuse themselves for the shit they get into. He was always all about duty and hard work and reward and how those three things can sometimes muddle into one, and Noctis would just cock his head and wonder what made the older man say that. Sometimes, when Gladio gets into his rants on duty and obligation, especially on the days back when Noctis couldn’t even be bothered with caring about his princely duties, he would get this look in his eyes as he makes eye contact with Noctis and, damn it, sometimes Noctis is weak enough to look away because, whenever Gladio talks about duty, he says it with a kind of compulsion that has his knees feeling soft and his heart running twenty miles a minute, eyes boring into Noctis, almost as if the then-Prince was his duty and hard work and reward all in one and something about the thought has him feeling extremely warm and fu—

Funny how it takes him dying for the world for him to be strong enough to acknowledge the thought.

He pulls the rations out of the crate he’s set against him and opens the packet. There’s something white inside, like biscuits or crackers or whatever it is and he puts them close to his nose to sniff. It smells like nothing, and when he pulls one out to take a bite – and, yeah, he did find a way to clean his hands (if by clean, you mean putting them into the snow for five minutes straight) — he tastes nothing. Still, he’ll take ‘taste like nothing’ over ‘taste nothing’ any day. He pulls out the rations out of the single packet and places them over it, before setting the thing literally next to the open fire.

It won’t add anything to the lack of flavor, and if it did add anything, he’d be damned surprised. However, a warm meal was better than a cold one, and it’ll make for an easier rest and, yeah, he may be a failure of a prince and a virtually nonexistent king but, at least, he got this right. He got one trick down and, someday (someday soon), he’ll be able to rub this in Gladio’s face. Sure, his Shield will have more points on the survival scoreboard but at least Noctis wasn’t zero anymore.

Because zero was pretty much the summary of his whole damn life.

Well — the other synopsis was the age-old adage _better start somewhere_ . One step forward, two steps back, fucking catapult over a hundred years, all of them a million times better than standing in place and letting everything roll over him. He’s shit at waiting, anyway. Ignis was the more patient one. And Prompto had all the people skills because he was just naturally _fucking_ perfectly charming. And Gladio had all the good looks. Although Noctis would be honest to admit that the last one was more or less genetic at this point, so it was more or less impossible to complain (still doesn’t help that his dad was a looker, then).

Except—

It’s just…weird, the things that keep circling back to run at his mind. He looks at the fire, at the shredded pieces of paper turning to soot and ash as the flames lick at the wooden panels, and he leans in close enough to feel frissons of warmth against his skin and how warm it is and maybe he understands, a little, of Ifrit’s rage at the betrayal of his gift, how the shreds of paper seem like nothing against the palm of his hand.

Yet, add in a tiny spark, maybe just enough altogether, when you step back and look at it for what it is—

In almost all the moments of his life that he’d come out as second, on the times that he’d feel choked with the things pushed on to his plate and the titles and jewels and the responsibilities piling on his shoulders, one rock after the other, until he’s flat on the ground, barely breathing and how he makes a joke about how he has no idea how to be a prince or a king, or he’d say something slightly and subtly self-deprecating, maybe about how a king couldn’t be a king because he can’t fucking walk or maybe he sometimes wonder how Luna could befriend him when she was the Oracle and she did her job without complaint when she was eight years old and Noctis couldn’t even call for help when a daemon cornered him and flattened him against a wall or how he was the king’s son and he couldn’t even imagine himself doing his father’s job because his father was Regis and he was a king and what was Noctis but a bumbling—

And yet, at almost every little comment, Gladio would look at him. It wasn’t always there, sometimes Noctis wouldn’t have the courage to look at his Shield right in the eye in these little moments, but when he does, oh gods, when he _does_ , there’s this brief moment of, a second there, honesty and the smile on his face is small and just a little bit melancholic and his normally loud voice would fall to a low note, a murmured _is that what you think, Noct,_ and then it would disappear, hidden beneath an annoyed roll of the eyes and the feel of a big hand scuffing his hair.

What an asshole.

What a stupid, dumb, lousy, useless excuse of—

Why didn’t he ever just say something?

Why didn’t _Noctis_ ever just say something?

He grabs the rations and stuffs it in his mouth and, sure, it burns his tongue and he actually gasps aloud at the heat, but it has him sweating and that was better than freezing to death.

God _damn_ it, why did it take Noctis climbing those final steps to a throne he never wanted and asking his own father to stab him in the chest on a bid to save the world just for him to _realize_ that? Why did it take the entire world turning into shit and beyond for him to finally be strong enough to see that?

He presses the palm of his hand against his cheek. Why did they spend the last moments they had together, the one Noctis was _so_ sure would be his final chance, a step and it’s zero, and he spent it staring at Gladio over the campfire, mapping how the Kingsglaive shirt looked so _good_ on him and how he had tied his hair back into that stupid knot of his, how he remembers telling Gladio that he likes it that way and—

Shit.

Maybe that was what Gladio had wanted all along. This was Gladio, and Noctis wouldn’t put it past him to be such a stubborn garula about it, for him to push and prod and point, always forward, never looking back, and if it was to pull, it was to pull him back just so Gladio could jump in front and take the hit for him, letting him figure out what the hell was going and let it anger him so much that he’d what?

Refuse to die? Give the gods his middle finger and mark his own conditions of victory? Not let them have their way and turn him into a sacrificial lamb, all because they were shitty assholes in the first place, always pissing on and pissing off the people doing _their_ jobs like how fucking Ardyn was and now it was Noct and—

And then—what was next? He still died. He still had to sacrifice. He still had to climb those steps because, as useless a prince he was, he still did what was asked of him, because it meant making people happy, and making people happy meant that they wouldn’t have to put up with him that much anymore and he was always _good_ at doing that.

He chews the rations down, slowly, so he doesn’t choke because he has nothing to use to boil the snow into water and the kind that won’t give him a literal shit problem.

But Gladio never said anything. Nothing but stare at him over the campfire, watching him just as intensely as Noctis was, just as unashamed, just as direct, and he never said anything, only looking away when he realized that Noctis was running on the last sands trickling inside an hourglass that refused to turn.

Maybe he was just confusing it with something else.

Maybe was just being too hopeful about it.

Or maybe it was not about being king – maybe it was not about responsibilities.

Maybe it was just about them, both, together.

What was he supposed to say, then? _Hey Gladdy, you in love with me or what?_

Well, that was direct, as far as he goes.

His cheeks are warm, and it’s partly because of the fire. Partly.

But if he was, what next? What happens after? Was Gladio even into men? Last thing he heard was that he was seeing someone, some girl, and the words he’d heard, it had stung, but then again, everything else _then_ paled to none knowing each step closer to Insomnia was the noose around his neck  closing around tighter. Maybe there was no time, just not enough of it, and it hadn’t been worth it, then.

Maybe Noctis wasn’t worth it.

“Ah, fuck, not this one again.” He actually exclaims because, _typical_ , he always comes full circle on that argument. Always and without fail. Maybe he’d do himself a favor and find a different argument all together without it being all about his self-worth. He’s already given his life for the world, maybe it was about time he cut himself some slack.

The last of the rations now in his stomach, Noctis brushed crumbs off his hands and stood, stretching. Having bent over the fire in the last, what, hour or so had him groaning as the kinks are straightened out. The fire was still steady, and he walked to the ledge of the carrier, arms crossed as he took in the darkness outside. It had been a while now and, even though he was distracted by his inner ranting of his failed love life, he still had kept an ear out to the wind, waiting for the rattle of chains and steel and the growl of daemons.

But there was nothing, save the crackling of the fire and the howl at the slip of the wind.

No daemons.

Nothing.

“Huh. How about that?” He whispers, and he looks up. He doesn’t see anything but darkness, and he’s sure the moon’s out there but the clouds were thick in the daylight and he’s sure he’s not seeing anything at this point. Still, though. He stands, and his hands fall to the sides and he doesn’t realize his vision is blurry. “We did it, Luna.”

Noctis would never admit to standing there for almost half an hour, just standing by the ledge and staring at the sky and repeating the words _we did it, Luna_ and imagining her happy, smiling face and his fucking heart _beats wild_ because, for once, he did well on his promise.

_I won’t let you down._

_I know you won’t._

Forget about zero, he’s pretty much on a roll now. Surreptitiously wiping his hands on his cheeks and justifying, even to himself, that it was the snow that made them wet, Noctis turns back to the flames and tosses a few more chops of wood into it. The flames seem to appreciate it, if the enthusiastic crackling is anything to go by, and Noctis settles on the side, back to the crate as he feels the warmth seeping into his body, and the exhaustion that had been nipping at him from the moment he woke up finally caught up to him.

Or maybe it had caught up to him long before and he was just stubbornly denying it. He was, after all, a master in pigheadedness, or according to Ignis anyway.

In the morning, he’ll need to move because, as comfortable as it was right now across a fire, he couldn’t stay here fore _ver_. He needs to look for people, needs to look for clothes and for food and he needs to find his friends. He’ll ask the questions later, on what happened and the future, and he’ll ask himself about him and Gladio later, when every thought of the man no longer has his heart skipping a beat.

Just, if anything else, so he could rub it in Gladio’s face that, yes, he was alive and, yes, he really wants to know the answer to his question, then so be it.

In the morning, he’ll head home – wherever home is, at this point. He hasn’t run out of chances yet, it seems.

Just the next chance and the next and the next.

His eyes are drooping, and his vision turns into slits. He leans his head against the crate and listens to the dance of the wind against the warm laughter of the fire, and if he just lets himself dream a bit, he can almost smell traces of vanilla and caffeine.

“Night, guys.” He says, murmurs, and falls into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like everyone to know that i have never been stranded in a frozen wasteland before - the closest thing we have to snow here in the Philippines is when i stick my face into the freezer. so, i'm merely banking on things i've seen in movies and read in novels on surviving extreme conditions.
> 
> do take the incoming chapters with a whole jar of salt :-)


	2. after you, hell would be easier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not easy traversing a wasteland all by yourself (and your errant thoughts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I was so happy to get such lovely feedback for the first chapter. As you may have noticed, I removed the "5" from the chapter queue simply because upon revisiting my timeline for the fic, I might be extending it as some chapters were far too long and uneven in pace for me. Still, this may take up to 10 chapters at most, though. Pace of updating may vary as I managed to put this second chapter up since I've already written it beforehand together with the first one. 
> 
> For those wondering about the gladnoct, it will be there. So, I'll probably add a 'slow burn' tag here even if there won't be direct gladnoct interaction for a bit. Trust me. I plan to write a lot about it - running 20k maybe - on full on gladnoct ~~(and you'll be happy to know it's smutty AAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY)~~
> 
> thanks again for the love, it really brightened my day.  
> chapter title taken from 'atomic man' by Portugal. the Man

 

> **chapter II: after you, hell would be easier**

* * *

 

 

 

When Noctis wakes the next morning and realizes that, huh, he is _still_ very much alive and very much _not_ the left overs of a ravenous swarm of imps, he lets himself roll over on to his back and stretch. He sighs as the kinks are evened out and he’s now well acquainted with how exhausting it was to sleep on something that felt uncomfortable and unwelcoming, in this case, that meant the steel grates of the hold’s flooring. There was a draft, chilly, and he burrowed into the coat deeper, a bit desperate to return to that limbo of slumber, and then recoiled, full package with every curse known to man, as the stench of the now-dried trooper blood hit his nostrils at point-blank range. Silver lining – it smelled like normal human blood so that crosses out daemon-blood infection off his list. What was so shitty about it? It smelled like normal _human_ blood, which was still gross.

His sleep had been thick, heavy – pure black and nothing else – except for the last parts of it, the last slithers and frissons and ribbons, half-curled and falling way, like strands of hair and it was just—it had to be Gladio, of all things. Gladio, with that smirk and deep-set eyes, gruff voice and the scruffy chin, tracing his skin with that dangerous mouth, cedar and ash and smoke trailing on his skin and unfurling in his veins down his—

Damn it.

He sits up, stretching his neck a bit and feels how parched his throat was. He smacked his lips, giving them a bit of moisture and the occasional slap echoes in the quiet, his eyes roving around tiredly, wiping at the gunk in the corners. It was bright outside, the once grey sky filled with stormy clouds had now cleared to an intensely bright blue. It was quiet but, it might just be a figment of his imagination, if he kept his breathing really quietly, he could hear what seemed to be birds chirping. Noctis feels himself smiling, a bit loony perhaps, but he chuckles to himself and grabs at the remaining ration packets. The fire had died, a few hours ago from what it looked like, and he grabbed the remaining papers and wood. The torch was still there, along with the sword, no looters looting off other looters, it seems.

With the fire going, Noctis manages to eat his way through the rations, even if he had to swallow back the thirst from stuffing himself with the meal. At least it was warm, enough to stave off the morning chill. He hurried on with his meal and tested his footing. The headache he had been sporting yesterday had gone, and he was not eager to have it return anytime soon.

Belly full (or as full as it can get with what he had eaten), Noctis took the sword in hand and did a few practice swings, the movements of his arm familiar enough that he can do it with his eyes closed and half-asleep. His trainers, especially Gladio, refused to let up on his training – even when on the road – and sparring against an elite greatsword wielder _and_ managing not to fall off the ledges of the ancient havens they used to stay at was an accomplishment in itself. Finding himself satisfied with the weight of the sword, even if the design wasn’t to his liking, Noct sets it aside to grab at the remaining packets.

Taking off the coat, he used the sword to cut off the cloak that had been around his shoulders and managed to turn it into a makeshift bag of sorts, placing the packets and the torch inside. To be safe, he also added a few wooden panels from the broken crate until it was bulky enough for him to carry without any lasting problem whatsoever. He was _so_ rubbing it in Gladio and Ignis’ faces that, yes, he did listen to their unending lectures on surviving in the wild.

Now, the big question then – where was he?

He took a look around, standing on the ledge of the carrier, ignoring the snow piling up on the trooper still askew on the ground below. With the sky clear and the sunlight – he still feels a shiver seeing it – bright, his spirits rise a bit at seeing that the endless tundra he had believed himself to be stranded in yesterday was not as endless as it seemed, if the faint outcrops of hills in the distances were any indication. They were tall, tumultuous even, but he made out what seemed to be smaller spires beside it – were those trees? He needed to get a closer look.

Stomping the fire down, not ungrateful at the warmth, Noctis gripped the sword in his right hand and slung the makeshift bag on his left shoulder. Jumping down from the ledge and thanking his lucky stars that his vision decided not to conjure constellations and meteors the moment his center of balance shifted, the situation suddenly didn’t seem as hopeless as it did before. Sure, it was still an icy wasteland, but maybe the rations had something in them that kicked the ass of his inner pessimistic self. Or maybe a good night’s rest did the trick. Heh, either way, he was fired up.

Feet flat on the ground, he ambled his way closer to the edge of his camp, toeing around the trooper and – wait – no _fucking_ way—

Maybe it was the because the wind from yesterday had blown the snow away, maybe he was dumb enough not to notice it but there, twenty or thirty feet from him, uncovered from the snow, were those tracks? He doesn’t know why his heart is seizing at the sight, maybe it was his next chance and the one after the other and maybe, just maybe, his luck is turning out for the better. He stepped closer, crossing over a few stray beams, and stopped when he got to the edge of the tracks, when the rustic metal was clear in his vision and he kneels, and traces the track from under the snow. He looked at the bank of snow on the sides of it and frowned, hard.

It seemed the ground wasn’t as flat as he had thought, as the tracks were set lower than where he was standing. The snow did a good job of making things look evened out, but now the storm had gone and the sun was up in the sky bearing down on Eos with all its strength, everything was crystal clear. The tracks seemed to come from under the snow, down past the crash site of the carrier. That would explain him not seeing it before, if the snow and all the rubble hid it from view. They lead straight towards the other side, parallel, westward and they disappeared under the snow. He stood and stepped to towards the uncovered parts and kicked the snow away, revealing more tracks.

Thing was, the already uncovered parts seemed to have had the snow cleared early on. By something? An animal or a beast, probably. It couldn’t be another person, right? That’d be a ten levels of creepy if there had been someone clearing the snow not that far from where he had been deep asleep. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he turned back to the carrier, and his eyes caught site of the Magitek trooper’s face plate.

He’s sure – he’ll bet every last gil he still has to his name, if there’s even anything left to his name at this point – that he left the trooper exactly as he did the way it looked now, its hands mangled and crossed under the bulk of its body, the metal faceplate pointing towards his direction, to where the traintracks were. But, the tracks weren’t there last night, under all the snow. The dim yellow eyes of the trooper were unflinching – of course they were, it was metal and wirings and light, not an actual eyeball – as if wanting to tell him something. It’s crazy, really _really_ crazy and if Noctis still thought he had any semblance of sanity, he shouldn’t even be entertaining the thought of it – there was just no way that the trooper had magically came alive while he was asleep to plow through the—

No. That was not possible.

Still.

If not the trooper, then who? Or what?

Well, he could either stand, debate the integrity of zombie robots _or_ just take it for what it is – one chance after the other – and get a move on. The thing about tracks, train tracks especially, are the trains, or the trains that used to travel on them since he doubts there are trains that could drive through a carrier without crashing. Thing is, trains lead to stations – manned by people and people mean civilization, and that means food. And a bed. He’ll take just food at this point. He has a hunch as to where he is – the pervading snow, the tracks, the endless, endless snow – and maybe if he’ll head in one direction or the other, he might come across a gargantuan corpse of a dead goddess. The Ghorovas Rift then.

How he ended up _here_ , he had no idea. He still has no idea why he is _here_ but, hey, he’s alive, apparently. This might have been his biggest chance yet. If his topography hadn’t failed him – and if the decade-long classes of geography hadn’t decided to unglue itself from his memory – the Ghorovas Rift would either lead straight to Gralea…or Tenebrae.

Shit. Luna. It had been Luna’s home – it could even be called _his_ home, because living there with her had been one of the brighter moments of his life. Even if he was in a fucking wheelchair and a failure, she had never ceased to make him smile. She had so much trust in him, even in the years they hadn’t seen each other, she still went on and did her duty for _him_ and he—

No, not anymore. He wasn’t going to go there, back to that circle where he always blamed himself and did _nothing,_ he promised Gentiana…and he promised Luna. He’ll always be grateful, to her especially, for giving him the strength to do what had to be done, even if he hated it with a passion. Luna wouldn’t want him to give up. _Gladio_ wouldn’t want him to give up. His Shield would beat the living shit _outta_ him if he did.

Tenebrae would be full of people, former retainers of the House Fleuret. He doesn’t know what it’ll be like, if people will recognize him – if people will even _like_ him at this point – but anything was better and, at this point, Tenebrae meant civilization. He needs to know, needs to be there to plan out and even if he had to crawl his way there, crawl on the tracks past Cartanica and swing on the ledges above the Fodina Caestino, he’ll do it. If nothing else, just so he could see Tenebrae once more and, maybe, the sylleblossoms are still flowering and maybe Luna’s just that amazing, still healing the world even in the afterlife.

He turns away from the tracks, to west, and looks back on the trooper on the ground. It was metal, robotic – more daemon-infused machine than man but, once upon a time, it _was_ a man. Once upon a time, it was someone like him. Once upon a time, it was someone like Prompto. Maybe this was what the Infernian had felt.

But there were still good people. He was fucking _in love_ with one of them.

There, he said it.

He paused, and looked up.

No, the sky hadn’t turned a fiery red; no, there was no brimstone and fire raining on Eos; no, the sheets of ice around him hadn’t turned into pillars of suffocating flames, sulfur and ash and misery burning the landscape; there was practically zero evidence that the apocalypse had begun at the sound of his admission. No, the world didn’t end just because one Noctis Lucis Caelum finally admitted that he was dead in love with his Shield.

It was okay. His feelings were okay.

So, he swallows the emotion bubbling in his throat, cements the idea of ‘yeah, I have to get to him, wherever he is’ and crouches down next to the trooper. He reaches a hand out and rests it against the plate. He wasn’t taking it off, no, his curiousity – no matter how morbid it was – will not be satisfied this day.

“Thanks.” He says, his voice almost as quiet as the valley, fingers tracing the lines of the plate. This could have been someone’s son or daughter, someone’s lover. He bites his lip. “I’m sorry.”

He’s thinking of burning it – burning the trooper, the metal, until the traces of all the _wrong_ did to it, to this person, disappeared – but he knows, from experience, that only a Firaga was strong enough to burn it to cinders. A simple fire from a small torch couldn’t do anything to it. Noctis swallows his bitterness, and turns away, and moves forward.

He doesn’t look back. He walks parallel to the track and kicks away the snow just so he can keep an eye on the direction. The sword in his hand is cold, but he grips it tight, and the bag thumps his side every now and then. The sky remains blue, the light just a tad bit warm against his skin and he walks away from the fallen trooper and the carrier.

He doesn’t look back, and doesn’t see a stray breeze lift the snow, slowly covering the faceplate, burying it under – another relic of a long gone past. Maybe if he had, it would have finally felt like a goodbye.

Noctis looks forward, to the growing outcrop, to the now-distinct hill and follows the tracks. Sometimes he stops, allows himself catch a breath – kicking all those piles of snow wasn’t easy – and he crouches and looks around. There were no stray beasts, and he remembers not really seeing any when he had travelled to Gralea. Maybe the remains of the Glacian kept them away, kept her body frozen and untouched, a pristine repose. He’s both grateful and weirded out by that, to be completely honest.

He doesn’t know what time it is, he makes estimations on where the sun was. He doesn’t feel hungry yet – not enough to make him want to open a packet, anyway. He allows himself to rest for a few minutes before he resumes, deciding to actually walk on the tracks now so that he can feel for the panels below, and that would be a lot better than kicking it all around the place. When — and not if because he no longer believes in _if_ , he can do this — he gets back to the first hamlet of civilization that doesn’t remind him of a death valley, he is going up to the whoever shovels snow for a living and hug them _hard_ because this goddamn shit is exhausting.

Noctis tightens the coat around him as a stray wind licks at the exposed skin of his neck and he shivers. He doesn’t even mind that he’s humming that stupid chocobo song again, anything to keep himself distracted from the cold. He’ll never eat ice cream _ever_ again, he’ll ban that shit. He will not take coffee and tea and anything hot for granted anymore, he’s not even going to order ice with his juice, fuck that _shit_ he’s had enough ice for twenty lifetimes, thank you _very_ much. Once he makes sure that he’s still alive at his destination, he is going to set a folding bed on a roof and lay there and _sleep_ and let the sun happily burn his skin like fried bulette bacon.

The thing about walking….or this particular walk is…

Well. Then.

Born and bred as the Crown Prince of Lucis, Noctis had learned to surrender whatever privacy he had. He was a prince, he was no longer his own person – his frigging body was the property of the Crown and State and all that jazz, Ignis could discuss that better than he can, anyway. Doesn’t change the fact that the moment he made his first cry as an ugly squealing baby, he was always guarded and accompanied and _watched_.

He hated it – he hated how he can’t take ten steps without a Crownsguard looking down at him with hard, unflinching eyes. He hated how he can’t head down to dinner without half a regiment of guards at his back as if the carpet was about to murder him. He hated how even taking a piss involved a sentry by the door because _what if the toiler reared up and swallowed him_ – well, that wasn’t what the guard said anyway. They never really talk, just shadow him. He’s taken to making up crazy things in his head at the antics, tried to make the stifling atmosphere a little bit bearable because, yeah, he can’t even wake up at night after a really fervid dream involving a certain Shield and pull his pants down to jerk himself off because the moment something makes a noise, the door opens a crack and—yeah, no matter the shit his dreams make up, he’s not into exhibitionism.

(Hmm, now that he thinks about it, maybe he _should_ have just jacked off even with the Crownsguard watching – who knows, it’ll probably be interesting.)

Cor trained his men well, apparently. Too well.

And then Gladio happened, and Ignis and Prompto and this wedding and this roadtrip. Out on the road, camping, there still was no privacy. When you share a tent with three others, all of whom are your bestfriends (one of them maybe the ultimate source of your constant hard-ons, maybe), it’d do you good to expect pretty much zero privacy. Not when Noctis wakes up, face pressed against Prompto’s bare back, or Ignis’ askew shirt showing off his chest or fucking Gladio and his allergy and hatred towards anything involving upper body clothing because, yeah, wasn’t it great to wake up to the hottest man alive and his boxers low on his hips? And literally nowhere to jerk off except for the _extremely rare_ times that Ignis allows them to stay at a hotel? And even then, it was jackshit weird to touch himself knowing the source of his problem was just outside, probably lying on the bed, book open on his bare toned stomach, hand maybe itching down to scratch at his hip and cause his very tight leather pants to slide _low_ like a goddamn fantasy come to life.

So, yeah. He’s used to having no privacy, used to having each and every single one of his movements watched, observed and recorded. Be it Crownsguard, his friends or the random loyal Lucian citizen waving at him, he was used to having to share his body with the entire country. Not in that sense, mind you.

Meantime, though, Noctis can’t figure out if it was damn lucky of him, or maybe it’s his luck turning on in itself, to be so utterly alone with all the garbled mess and garbage undulating in his mind. Sometimes the solitude is refreshing – to be so alone that he could even hear his own heart beating like a staccato on the ever silent tapestry, everything so clear-cut and focused like he’s been seeing the world in old, dirty glasses and he’s given a brand new set, ambient noise and chatter blown out to silence and he’s finally breathing, on his own.

But sometimes—

Sometimes it’s better not to think.

Sometimes it’s better just to let actions be actions and not let his mind wander to territories he’ll never be comfortable exploring.

Because errant thoughts can be crueler than most, sure – he’s admitted most of his fears to himself already: admitted his fears of never being enough, always striving for that _almost_ and never reaching it; he’s admitted being afraid to die, said the words to the three other people that meant the fucking world to him over a final campfire; admitted in the quietest, darkest moments in his life that he loved Gladio so much the thought made it hard to breathe. The fears were there, they were present and they were acknowledged, and sure, he’s heard the same bullshit over and over – how admitting your fears was the first step in overcoming them. Doesn’t make them any less terrifying. Doesn’t make the nights he wakes up with the fear lodged tight in his throat any less exhausting, any less weakening. It’s these thoughts, doesn’t matter if they’re true or not, doesn’t matter if he’s determined to push through or he’s weak enough to surrender, but they’re always there and a part of him already believes that they’ll _always_ be there and sometimes they tell him, even then, they’ll whisper—

 _No one’s going to want you_ , they hiss. Sometimes they sound like his father, sometimes they sound like Luna but, most of all, over and over, they sound like his own voice, echoing in the silence and the snow. _No one in their right mind, no one_ sane _enough would want you. Anyone else would have been a better royal than you. Even the dirt under your feet and the grime under your nails were better than you. You think dying for the world made you_ any _better? It didn’t. You’re just a pawn in a game of gods and you think doing your own part means that daddy gets to kiss you goodnight and tell you that you’re a good boy? You think that you’re better for the world, after the world had fucking killed itself for you – when hundreds of people had died,_ for _you? You may not have pulled the trigger and pushed the knife, but their blood is on your hands. You killed them. You killed boys that fathers still have to bury. You killed boys and girls, who could have gone home to rolling hills and earth and fields, to the people waiting for them, a letter in their hands, waiting and hoping and_ praying _. You took what little happiness they had and crushed it under your fingers and you think that gives you a pass for being afraid to take up your crown like a good little boy? You think that having your father stab you in the heart would even come_ close _to paying back all the million hurts you’ve done the world, like it’s possible to rectify all your mistakes, like it’ll bring back everyone you’ve lost, like your mommy and Luna and—_

Except—

When he really _thinks_ about it—

When he doesn’t let it haunt him to the last seconds of consciousness—

Noctis knows a thing or two, now, about the sort of shit you have to hide to survive in a place, a world, like this. He knows, a bit, on the kind of things you have to cement and hide and bury in the recesses of your soul – in the places that are so deep and dark that even you can’t pull them out – so that no one else, not even those you love so much, can take it from you, the way a butcher can pull out the intestines and the heart of a dead animal, take it out and cut it away from you because _they_ will, the world _will_ , here, even for a moment – for a fucking second — if you give them even the tiniest, thinnest slice of vulnerability and honesty. You’ll be left with nothing but blood-tinted bones of what could have been’s.

And, yeah, he’s afraid. He’s _always_ been afraid. There has never been a time in his life, in the one before he got skewered with his father’s own sword and the one he has now, that he has _not_ been afraid. Every moment he’s awake, the fear is always there, like an ugly, hateful ghost latched on to his skin and bones, sharp teeth and tongue slithering poisons into his ear and heart. He’s always afraid, but that doesn’t mean he can’t _fight_ back.

Doesn’t mean he can’t stand on his own two legs for fucking once and punch the demon straight in the fucking face, even if it meant shoving his fist down its black throat, past its gnashing teeth and vile breath. Doesn’t mean he can’t cut his own heart out himself than let the world do it for him, because the alternative was to roll over and die and Noctis wasn’t anything else but – and like the way his father used to whisper to him in the times he thought Noctis had fallen asleep, under the quilt, the cool winds of Tenebrae dancing against the window, how his father laughs to himself because, damn, _you’re just too much like me, aren’t you, Noct_ — fucking stubborn.

He doesn’t plan on stopping.

On-to-the-moment, he also doesn’t plan on stopping this pathetic-ass stroll across the snow until the end of eternity, but it’d make a hell lot easier if he didn’t have to keep kicking—

The—

Snow—

Away—

Every _fucking—_

His boot catches on the panel, and Noctis is about to swing it back when something – probably a stray screw or something of that sort – scrapes the metal part of it and flies off to the side, and he doesn’t really have time for that, anyway, so he’s going to—

He stops, once more, as the light hits off the object and he flinches as it reflects into his eyes, full-force, and he whispers 'fuck you, too’ at the sun.

“Alright, alright. Sheesh.” He complains to _abso-freaking-lutely_ no one, just because he _can_. Royal prerogative and that shit. Take that, Iggy.

Noctis grumbles all the way until he reaches the small hole left by whatever it was that he managed to kick into the snow, and crouched. He grimaced at feeling the cold on his knees, a bit used to how dry they were in the last few hours, and splayed a hand out to push the mound away. Maybe it was just a stupid screw, or maybe it was a bullet (that would be unexpected but not uncommon in an open field like this, considering the distance between the Rift and the imperial capital) or maybe it could be anything else other than what he actually found.

He picks the item up, index finger and thumb around the small band, the light glinting off the metal and it didn’t look scarred in the slightest, so, not metal then – maybe silver or white gold – but whatever the band was dimmed in comparison to the jewel set on the ring.

(he both wants to know and doesn’t want to know why there was a _ring_ in the middle of the train tracks in the _middle_ of absolutely nowhere)

The jewel – gem, stone, shiny piece of rock – set on the center was simple, cut into a rectangular shape, and the band around it was designed to make it look like it was branching into a stem and the stone was the flower. Pretty sure his analogy is off – he’s obviously not knowledgeable on the intricacies of jewelry making, oh well – but the point still stands: it was a pretty little thing, if not for the stone, then for its simplicity. The stone was transparent, clear – maybe diamond? – but when he turns the ring slightly and the light catches it, it shines with a kind of intensity that has Noctis squinting a bit. It looked not unlike the flashes of lightning in every thunder-type spell he’s cast in the past.

On some other instance, Prompto would be running on how _magical_ it was to run into something like this in the middle of nowhere. Then again, Prompto had always been the _lightest_ member of their little group – he was always the one with the bright smiles and the flushed cheeks and the blue-purple eyes that could charm its way into anyone’s life and declare _nope, not leaving anytime soon, buddy_ and you’d fucking _thank_ him for it. He knows that Prompto isn’t always smiles and sunshine and sunflowers on a sweet spring day. He knows Prompto has ghosts of his own, ghosts that hide behind the brightness of his eyes and the easiness of his smiles, in the black of the barcode imprinted on his wrist – the one he desperately hides and, yeah, Noctis knows a thing or two about that — in the silver-lined stretch marks running from hip to abdomen, the one Prompto pretends doesn’t exist, the one Ignis always smiles at, reaching out to—

Huh. Maybe there was something there? Okay.

Anyway, Noctis was the one who was more readily accepting of reality’s little harsh truths and what could have passed off as fantastic and magical was just big ass coincidence. Sometimes coincidences are cruel, at times they could be blessings but, more often than not, coincidences are just coincidences and nothing more.

He keeps the ring, hides it inside the inner pocket of the lapel of his clothes because he’s not above making sure of that and life is not above doing its damnedest in proving him wrong. At the very least, whenever he gets to Tenebrae, he could sell it off.

Sure, it belonged to someone. Sure, it could have possibly meant the world to someone. But this was the middle of fucking nowhere and, unless that someone turns out to be the dead Glacian and, well, someone ought to tell her she might need some resizing to fit such a small thing on a huge-ass finger.

If he needs to, he’ll sell it. It was beautiful and the stone was intriguing, but the money he could make off it was more valuable to him. He has no idea what’s up with the world now, if his kingdom was still standing, if any of the old council was alive or if they’ve decided bowing to a king was exhausting already and might as well put up their _own_ government – worst case scenario: he was a king in belief now. Other than the pages of a history textbook, he has nothing to his name. Primogeniture won’t feed him, only gil will. And this beautiful, shiny ring will fetch a _lovely_ amount.

And he’ll say sorry and feel bad about it, but that was that. Just one more line in a never ending number of crossed lines on the tally board of the things he’s had to do. He can live with that. He’ll have to.

Feeling the ring against his chest, Noctis turns back to continue on his path and realizes that, in the midst of his inner monologues on the past twenty years of his life (well, not counting the time he’s spent in the Crystal _and_ whatever amount of time he’s spent being _dead_ for that matter), he’s crossed the tracks past the outcrop and the craggy hills and finds, to his joy, that there were _trees_ around it.

They were tall, insanely so, but they looked sturdy – their trunks thick and unyielding – rising to branches and _green, green_ leaves. The trees were unrecognizable but they didn’t look like they were _dying_ , so that must mean they’re used to the climate, right? And if so, that meant (maybe, just maybe) some semblance of life other than Noctis and the plants?

He pauses and frowns. Not much to go on, unfortunately. Still, he had the same conclusion yesterday and that was proven wrong.

Was this one more chance? Maybe. Definitely. Yes.

So, he rotates his shoulders, stretching out, not realizing he had been slouching for a bit and he turns his gaze to follow the line of trees dotting the side of the hill – which didn’t seem like a hill now that he was close, looked like the foot of a mountain spreading into the distance – and the trees that were carpeting the upper regions of the hill-maybe-a-mountain-actually and further. He looks down on the tracks and he estimates their direction and guesses that if he travels parallel to both the tracks and the forest, he wouldn’t be too apart and, honestly, this was that next chance, wasn’t it?

But what if the tracks would branch the other way while he follows what could be another fucking dead-end? What if he’s just walking straight into nothing, feet taking him nowhere, and he’ll end up having to start over and over again?

No way to know but to find out. Sounds familiar. Pretty much the summary of every uncertainty in his life. Pretty much every little thing he’s beaten his entire existence against. Nothing like stubbornness and panic-borne cleverness as the world’s best weapons. Times like these, that’s all he’s got.

He grips the sword tighter, taps the dull end against his leg, sets his jaw and takes one step towards the distant forest. And the next, and then the next, and the next. One chance after the other because every fucking epic in the history of all of Eos was built on each step after the other. He’s not as smart as Ignis, but he knows that one step after the other keeps him moving. Just moving, and going forward and breathing and moving on. Just go.

Sometimes, life’s that simple.

 

∞

 

 

Sometimes, life was _not_ that simple.

The sun had gone from high noon (from his own estimation) to somewhere in between. Don’t get him wrong, the sky was still the same crystal blue, and the light was still warm against his skin and the cold wasn’t bothering him as much as it honestly _should_ and maybe he’s developed hypothermia or some freezing-related sickness or maybe he’s just become resistant to snow and cold now – one more superpower then, Prompto is _so_ gonna be jealous that Noctis has become a real-life RPG hero — and nothing was really bothering him. Not unless you count the forest. That didn’t seem to end. _Ever_.

He doesn’t know if it’s only been a few minutes, a few hours or even a few days, at this point. Maybe the sun was also an Astral and magicked everything to make it look like it was still daytime and now Noctis was its experimental chickatrice and, okay, so maybe he might have thought about _that_ theory a little too much, but there really wasn’t anything else to do but stare onwards, at the snow on the left and the trees on the right and they both look the _same_. The mountaintop had long ago disappeared upwards to the high heavens, covered in a blanket of trees and all that’s keeping him company is the nestled shallow valley of – yup, you guessed right – more trees. It is incredible, absolutely incredible, beyond belief really, how far Noctis could see distinctly when absolutely nothing was different.

Still, he perseveres. He’s not worried, well, not _yet_ , at the seemingly endless forest. If worse comes to worst, and the sun decides to snooze, he can make camp inside the forest, he’s sure that he can _maybe_ reach some of the branches and cut them down for a campfire. Climbing the trees to sleep on the really large branches above? The idea was welcome but, unless there’s also an Astral of ropes waiting to bless him with it, then it was out of the count. He’s more worried on his dwindling rations than anything, really. If he cuts back on it for dinner, he can maybe last a day more or two.

Yeah, he’ll make it. Once outside the forest, he’ll end up closer to Tenebrae and from Tenebrae, there’ll probably be a train and he can sell the ring there, enough for him to buy a ticket for one former king, who only wants so much to go home and disappear into the unassuming crowds of people, and from Tenebrae will be a two-hour, three at most if he counts the high number of passengers, trip to Altissia. He can book a room in the Leville if he’s feeling up to fancy, or maybe go for the cheaper motels in the deeper parts of the colorful city, he’s no one by now, and maybe do a few hunts to keep gil in his pockets – or he could head back to Cleigne or Duscae or Leides, and he’ll be on home soil and he can finally get to work on finding Prompto and Ignis and Gladio and, yeah. Compared to the ten years he’s spent asleep, this entire journey could pass and finish in a blink of an eye and he’ll be back home, in the longest-shortest train ride of his life, and then…

Then he could be home, and he’ll be able to find his friends, the only _family_ he has or will ever have. He’ll finally be able to pin Prompto down and force a razor on his face because that stupid goatee has _got_ to go, and he’s sure Ignis will be more than happy to help him pin their bumbling chocobo of a friend down, and he’ll turn to Noctis and smile that same smile, even when the tan-scar on his face glares at Noctis, and a cloudy green eye will still manage to make him feel as if he can’t hide anything, not even a single penny, from his former advisor, from his own bestfriend, from his _Shield_ and—

Gladio. Gladio will just stand there, tall and burly and beautiful, laughing and grinning, raucous and loud and that warmth inside Noctis’ chest will finally find somewhere else to go because it sometimes _hurt_ to think of Gladio and not see him, and when Gladio stops laughing and just _smiles_ at him, eyes open and warm and fucking _golden_ in the afternoon light, Noctis would feel better. He always does—

Even when Noctis steps on to his own soil, on the soil his father had bled and died for, and his father before him, and so on and on until it runs back to the first would-be king, to the first one of _their_ line fooled and played by the Astrals, on Ardyn fucking _Lucis Caelum_ , and if someone like Ardyn could want rest and _only_ rest, for the wrongs done against him – not ask for retribution against the divine even if he was fucking justified in asking for it, but mere slumber with his loved ones in the afterlife, then maybe Gladio could look past the imperial colors he wears now, in the trooper’s blood printed on to his skin and glued to his soul, because Gladio would, he _would_. He was a Shield and it was his duty to protect and defend the king, and duty and life meant one and the same to someone like Gladio but it wasn’t obligation promised at birth that bound him to Noctis, but he will anyway because, fuck—

Gladio loves him. Gladio fucking _loves_ him. And maybe that statement is one percent certainty and ninety-nine percent conjecture and ten-fucking-thousand percent bulette-shit, but he believes it because ten years can do things to someone, change them, break them and mold them into something darker and crueler, and it did – it did turn Gladio into someone lonelier and colder but when Noctis had taken that step back in Hammerhead and didn’t have the strength to say anything past the quiet ‘hey’, when Gladio looked him in the eyes, fierce and bright and burning like a raging behemoth and overwrought with imagery of a flaming beast that refused to bow – and if he learns to look past the metaphor, past the platitudes and hears what it says, hears _you’ll always be you. You can’t be anyone else but yourself and I_ chose _to be by your side. You’ve been gone for so long, I’ve almost forgotten you the same way I’ve almost forgotten how it feels to have the sun in my face but you’re_ impossible _to forget. You may think you’re not worth it, and you may think that what we feel, what I both_ chose _and did not choose to feel was born out of obligation and pity, and, maybe, you could be right but, maybe, you could also be_ wrong _because what I feel for you could_ never _be wrong and what I feel is that you_ are _worth it, and you don’t have to worry about finding your place in this world, in the world_ you _sacrificed to create because you fucking belong to this world, every single part - from rock to mountain and even to the clouds - everything you see right now is a fucking monument in your name, and every single day that passes by and I’m afraid that I’ll start forgetting how you look like when you’re asleep, or how your voice sounds or how my name tastes on your lips, all I have to do is look up at the sky, at the beautiful light you gave back to us and I know I’ll always know you until the day I die. So, endure this. Survive this. Live. Hold on to who you are, to the Noctis I fucking love and even if you let go, I’ll be there to let go_ with _you and trust me, like you’ve always had, trust me when I say that this is and will always be who you are. Come home. We’ll get through this together._

And maybe the last part is false hope, and he’s had enough of false hope. But maybe it could also be true. Yet, what he is one-hundred percent certain is one thing: all he needs is his _family_ by his side and he can make it. Every chance on a road of finite chances and he’ll beat the odds. Because with people like Prompto, Ignis and Gladio by his side – Luna and dad and mom in the heavens - come Titan or Leviathan, they’ll stagger through. They always do.

One step after the other, and he doesn’t hum as he so much sings, still that old chocobo song, and were those _birds_ chirping – and, Astrals, please don’t let them be wyverns and, okay, maybe wyverns don’t chirp but _still_ , he’s not in any capacity ready to take on flying monstrosities at this point because _how_ is he even going to go about it, catapult himself off the nearest tree? Well, okay, that _may_ be a possibility but still—

Well, unless said flying monstrosities were on the ground because the chirp seems to be coming from directly his side—

And it doesn’t sound like a chirp, in _fact¸_ it sounds less like a caw or a birdcall and more familiar, so he turns his head to the side, lips open in song and—

“Kweh?”

“…chocobo all day.” He finishes, dumbly.

What.

“Kweh?”

 _What_.

If he thought his life was a joke before, it _certainly_ is now.

He stands still, eyes still trained on the chocobo just around three feet from him, and it was fucking _pink_ of all colors.  He doesn’t move, his eyes roving on the feathers plucking out, on the yellow beak nipping, on those _big_ brown eyes looking at him, sizing him, cocking its head like he was a curiosity to be understood and _my, a human! How rare!_ Okay, so he’s also sure that chocobos don’t think like that but he’s not judging and, who knows, maybe they really _do_ think like that since Prompto thinks _like_ that and everyone knows Prompto is actually a chocobo in disguise so—

His eyes look down to the harness around its neck and up its back. It was weathered, old, but looked strong and well-worn. There was a small lamp attached to it, and what seemed to be greens tucked inside the pockets. The seat atop its back had streaks of dirt and grime on it, but there was an indent as if it was used regularly and not just on occasion, which means the chocobo belonged to _someone_ , and if a chocobo was here, literally next to him, it could not have gone far, right? Which _means_ that it said owner must be nearby. Which _also_ means that said owner is, most likely, another human being.

And his, maybe, infantile hypotheses all point to one thing: he was on the right path.

The chocobo makes another sound, its legs scratching at the dirt under it and, wow, he didn’t notice that the snow had started to recede and there was actually _earth_ now, and, yeah, they were piled together in clumps with the snow but if a chocobo could pull all that out just by scratching, it meant that the snow didn’t pile up as _much_ as it had a few hours and, damn, he was _exhausted._

Walking had took a bite out of him, and he had been walking a lot and the empty seat on the saddle of the chocobo was starting to look more and more tempting and, hey, wait, he could just ride the chocobo out of the forest, right? Its owner might not like it but, either way, Noctis will need to be near the chocobo and have it lead him to its home—

Still, that means getting close to the chocobo and holding the harness so it won’t run off far.

Noctis doesn’t know what to do with the sword in his hand but his left was free and the chocobo didn’t seem that interested in running off yet, instead, its eyes were still trained on him and it was starting to get a bit creepy. All he needs to do is take one step, twist his body and grab the harness that was just _there_.

So, he breathes and he exhales his breath, takes a step and reaches out for the harness.

Except the chocobo took a step back, harness sliding smoothly away from his now-closed fist. It looked up at him, made a small ‘kweh’ sound again and cocked its head. _Uh, what are you doing?_

The Prompto-sounding voice his thoughts so _kindly_ provided _without_ his consent did not help as he glared at the bird. “C’mon boy…or girl, come to daddy.”

He takes another step and makes for the harness again.

The chocobo takes _another_ step back.

“Damn it. You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

This was ridiculous. Without any doubt, just totally ridiculous. Here he was, a king of an ancient line, the king of kings and the chosen one, and he can’t get a fucking chocobo to stay still. He takes one more step, and the chocobo backs up and it backs up again as he takes one more, until they’re playing a stupid game of hopscotch.

Irritated, Noctis growls at the bird. “Won’t you fucking stay _still_?”

The chocobo, as if pissed off at him for screaming at it even though it was to blame, squawked at him, high and loud, wings unfurling to the sides, giving off an impression that it was taller and bigger than Noctis – who was still cringing at its loud cry – and suddenly, the chocobo turns, shoves its tail feathers into his face and took off running away from him.

And was Noctis the idiot who would chase after a chocobo while carrying a heavy sword in one hand?

Yes, he was.

 _Shit, why does it have to be so fast?_ He thinks, and yes, he would appreciate the chocobo’s speed if he were sitting on that saddle attached to it and not chasing after it – more like staggering – like an idiot because his patience was on a short fuse today and he really, really needed to slow down. The chocobo takes a turn past the trees, jumps over a few overgrown roots, and Noctis half-runs, half-hobbles behind it, making sure not to trip and if he were to trip, he tries to make sure he won’t stab himself with the sword while falling down because _wouldn’t that suck, huh?_

He turns to the left and ducks behind a low branch, feels the sunlight seeping through the spaces in between the leaves to mark his face in patches of warmth and he feels himself sweating, so that’s good, yeah, probably, because he’s been in the cold for too long even if it was just a day and maybe a half if his weather estimations did him any good _like_ the rest of his long-blown skills were any good in the first place and, whoops, almost got his head smacked with another branch and, uh, if the chocobo’s plan was to tire him out, it was _definitely_ working.

Noctis is breathing loudly and raggedly, mouth open like a dog, and he doesn’t care that sweat is dripping down his cheeks, as the pink blur of a chocobo squawks in place and, finally, there we go – he jumps over _another_ overgrown root definitely in need of culling, lands on even ground right beside a huge-ass boulder to face the chocobo that had led itself to a dead end. The clearing was lower than the rest of the topsy-turvy footing, and the chocobo was pacing in front of a high carving of earth and stone and root, the tall trees standing majestically from atop. Even with its wings, it couldn’t jump and glide high enough for that – and it had nowhere else to run since the clearing curved in itself, meaning the only way for it to leave was to get through him.

Which he wasn’t allowing, any time soon.

Which the chocobo, as if realizing its escape route, was also planning to do.

“Got nowhere to run, birdie.” He says, breathing roughly at the end of each word because running was never his forte, and if there was one thing he would want right now other than a big-ass bed was for someone to carry him so he wouldn’t have to walk anymore in his entire life. Maybe Gladio would do it. He’s always calling Noctis his ‘princess’, might as well bank on those royal responsibilities then.

The chocobo approaches him and squawks, loudly and repeatedly, warning him to stay away. It raised its hackles and flapped them and Noctis suddenly doesn’t feel as confident as he had before, not when he realizes that, okay, those were really _sharp_ claws and he’s seen chocobos rip skin off dead voreteeth like it was nothing and maybe he’s not exaggerating if he imagines that same beak plucking his own eyes out? And, yeah, maybe the entire thing would have been less terrifying if the chocobo was yellow and not pink—

Which, in this particular lighting, was now looking less pink and redder like it’s been bathing in the blood of its victims and it’s rearing for another shower, this time with Noctis’ own blood and, uh huh, chocobos are _scary_ shit.

So, he lowers his sword but doesn’t loosen his grip on it, not when the chocobo steps closer and snaps its beak at him, its call now sounding ominous instead of cute. He takes a step back, eyes still on it, as the chocobo steps forward and suddenly it’s a reverse hopscotch now and the irony is _not_ lost on Noctis, just his like for him to—

He steps back again and feels the boulder against his back.

The chocobo raises its wings once more and cries aloud, extending its neck to glare menacingly at Noctis.

He’s sure that even Ardyn could hear his gulp from the afterlife, and feels the boulder behind him move—

Wait.

Boulders don’t move. They also don’t feel slimy and wet and _icky_.

Boulders also don’t make deep _ribbit_ sounds. They also don’t lick you from hand to arm to shoulder.

Without preamble, Noctis turns, ignoring the irritated cry of the chocobo.

He comes, face-to-face, with a gigantoad. An awake, annoyed-looking, gigantoad. With its large tongue out.

Said tongue had licked him. _Twice._

It opens its mouth, blue-green tongue that had Noctis’ stomach doing a dance lolling out, about to lick him right in the face and _hell no—_

With a cry of surprise, Noctis slashes at the tongue with his sword and all hell breaks loose. The gigantoad, apparently viewing them as harmless pests, on feeling its tongue ripped open by the sword cried out thunderously, and Noctis half-thought that, by the end of everything, he’ll be needing hearing aids. Something wet and icky – probably blood, or spit or toad drool which is all levels of disgusting – hit his face, just as he jumps back as the gigantoad makes for him with a grab with its short but huge feet.

Shit. Shit. Mother _fucker_.

Noctis jumps to the side as the tongue that he had injured rolled back, only to lash out and, lucky, because it left an impact on the ground when it rolled back up and he would have been a splatter by then. The chocobo behind him resumed its squawking, adding more noise to the shitshow, _comfortably out of reach_ of the tongue because it decided to fly up to the clearing when it realized that Noctis had moved away—the smartass.

He hacks at the open side of the beast, flinging the bag back over his shoulder after it decided to give him a good ole’ whack in the face. His blade leaves a cut on the grey-green skin, thin liquid oozing out. The gigantoad slowly turned to his new position, alien-like eyes trained on him and, shit, those things will always be scary. He’ll take killer bees and iron giants over these guys _any_ day. He’s also praying that neither of those two will appear anytime soon, because even if the daemons were gone, it was always Noctis’ luck to have them appearing and crawling out of the ground every single time he took ten steps outside any haven at night. Can’t test fate and all that.

Another loud roar has him grunting in pain, one hand pressed against his left ear. He hoped it was just an angry roar and not the kind where it calls others to its aide because some annoying, horribly-dressed little man was flinging a sword at it. He _really_ cannot handle two at this point – could even barely handle one (and that was even _with_ the armiger). Without his magic and the arsenal always available to the Lucis Caelums, he was just one ordinary man against a force of nature.

And nature _loved_ to crush men like him under her feet.

He falls into a roll as the gigantoad suddenly reared back only to _jump_ forward and he could feel the ground literally shaking at the impact. Noctis curses, his shoulder taking the brunt of the fall and staggers to his feet, but the stupid bag he had on was stuck on a root and he tries to pull it out, but the cloth was crossed over his arm and the root and, fuck, how do _these_ things keep happening to him?

The gigantoad was slowly turning back to him now, and he was still half-bent over the ground because of the goddamn root, and shit, he looks up to see the beast looking at him, mouth opening and—sure, gigantoads don’t smile but it if it did, it sure as hell did not look like anything remotely _nice_ at all because that was full-blown menace right there, yesiree.

He groans and pulls at the bag again, but the cloth was fucking unyielding and, damn it, it was so easy to cut it apart with a knife but he can’t even pull the thing apart, fuck the high quality of Insomnian cloth, seriously _not_ helping—

The ground trembles again as the gigantoad steps nearer and, damn it, he refuses to go down like this. Not only because it was ridiculous to be eaten by the likes of a big-ass frog but also because being eaten by something that did not have teeth was going to be slow and painful. He looks down at the sword, feels the sweat dripping from his chin and he looks back at the cloth—

He can’t, his torch was inside and the _food_ but that would be useless if he was about to be gigantoad slobber in a second or so—

“Fuck this.” Noctis growls and swings the blade down on the cloth, the force he placed at pulling it and having it unceremoniously cut caused him to tumble back just as the gigantoad jumps again and squishes the bag under its weight. He hears something crack and snap and his spirits drop because that was the torch, wasn’t it? Still, he can’t feel that bad when it could have been something else like his head.

He stands back up, and steps back, sword in front of him as the gigantoad roared again and he’s about to plan for an attack when another _answering_ roar echoed just from beyond—

Oh, no—

Those yellow eyes glimmering in the shadows were _not_ that of another gigantoad, right?

When another green-tongue lashed out at him from the dark, Noctis cursed every-fucking-one – yes, even Gladio – and ducked, rolling away. He tumbles down the slope leading out of the clearing and feels the blade of the sword cut his jaw – _ow_ – and yeah, he doesn’t feel it yet, but he will later, when the adrenaline has gone, along with every other ache in his body magnified to a million because it will never agree to the abuse Noctis was subjecting it to. He backs up, somewhat bent over, sword aloft because there were _two_ gigantoads now and—

“Kweh!”

There was a cry of that damn chocobo, and Noctis was swinging his sword before him, trying to hack at the lolling tongue and—

“Fuc— _ow!_ ” The chocobo had pecked him on the shoulder, and it doesn’t matter that he has two coats on, that beak still _hurts_ and—

The chocobo was pulling him—away—

Where—

He turns to the bird as it pulled him further back and, damn it, what is it even doing—

There was light in the distance, in between the trees and –his eyes widen- was that a house? A mill?

Another stomp and Noctis doesn’t even have to think about what’s next. He jumps back next to the chocobo, turns to it and it looks back at him and—

“Kweh!”

“Run!”

He doesn’t even find it humorous at how he and the chocobo took off in the same direction, to the same light in between the thick trees, in the house growing larger and more distinct with every step. He doesn’t hear anything but the pounding of his heart in his ears, the sweat stuck to the threads of his hair, to the slippery hold he has on the sword in his hands, to the idea that one step closer – one closer step – was _home, home, home_ and he would be damned back and forth if something as stupid as a gigantoad or a thousand will hold him back. His boot catches on a goddamn root, and he tumbles into the rocky path, feels the snow and the earth plastered across his face as falls, the sword thankfully out of reach of any of his body parts. Pain blooms on his cheek, his forehead and he’s pretty sure his nose might be broken, as he gets back up, vision blurry, but the unmistakable splotch of red vivid against the stark whiteness of the snow.

He tries to move forward, but the spots suddenly started appearing and what was that wet thing on his cheek? He presses a hand and when he pulls it away, there’s red again and—huh? Was something calling? Maybe the bird? Wait—

He ambles forward, his legs weirdly shaky and suddenly his limbs are lethargic and—it was just a fleshwound, innit? Didn’t Ingis — Igsin, _Iggy_ — say that the bleeder was a head? He’s sure it was that, but it ain’t soundin’ right.

Ain’t. What does that even mean?

Noctis groans, crawling forward – wait, crawling? When did he start doing that? Was he a baby?

More red splotches the snow below and, huh, doesn’t it look really pretty?

The pounding in his head was louder now and he’s sure it’s _hurting_ but if he could stand up, he could probably dance to the beat like a…like a—a—

“Kweh?”

He looks up, finds it _exhausting_ to even move his head and his vision swims and, boom, there’s spiky hair amongst the spots and the black and white flashing and, huh, when did Prompto dye his hair pink?

Ugh.

There was something on his face, err, lips—something. He rubs his hand down again and he hisses at the sting of his wound and when he pulls it away—wait, is there supposed to be something green together with the red? Funny, it looked like the same green on his sword—and—

Wait. _Wait._

Sword. Green.

He cut the gigantoad with the sword. And then he cut himself with it after when he fell.

Eyes widening, Noctis feels the blade slipping from his hand as the realization sinks in his foggy consciousness. Shit. Shit. _Shit._ Damn it, was this supposed to happen? Wasn’t he going home?

Maybe if he just—

His arms fail him, Noctis feels himself hitting the ground. He breathes, open-mouthed, and saliva trickles from his lips. There was something warm on his face, the other side that was bare and wasn’t pressed against the snow and he rolls over, until he faces the blue sky.

Blue.

Bluuuue.

Like Prompto’s eyes.

Huh.

Or Luna’s.

Was he in heaven?

Maybe he was. He was so tired, anyway. Leides was too far. He’ll just go to sleep here, yes, in the snow. He’s always liked snow. It was warm and inviting and _so_ clean and if he lets _go_ , he’ll float up like a little feather into the sky. Sleep was good. Sleep it is.

Something obstructs the light from his face and he groans aloud. _No_ , go away. He wants to sleep. Five more minutes, Gladio. He needs to pour Sir Umbra the Count some tea. Iggy, be a dear and lick Sir Umbra’s feet. Hmm.

The shadow moves and he opens his eyes a sliver. He doesn’t hear anything except some garbled mess like someone was talking underwater and, why yes, he would like some eggs, thank you.

Something pricks at his hearing and he focuses on that and then—a voice sings out before he closes his eyes and fall into pitch black darkness.

 

“Hello?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (virtual cookies as to which FF character inspired the last line)
> 
> as always, I appreciate your thoughts on the progress of the story.  
> all mistakes are mine. i'll be slowly rereading these chapters and editing those pesky little typos and errors out. :)


	3. some things are made to last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe some things are just coincidental, or maybe some things are just meant to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so happy and in love with all the feedback I got for the 2nd chapter. <3 I hope you all like this one.
> 
> P.S. I just realized that all those weird _italics ._ were because of some editing thing I overlooked. LMAO.
> 
> title taken from 'way back when' by kodaline

 

> **chapter III:** some things are made to last

* * *

 

 

 

The funny thing about dreams was — well, they weren’t as funny as they were _cruel_ — they have this power to make you doubt the things you’ve been holding on to, the little parapets of hope and faith that you’ve stuck your hand and guts in, bleeding and painful, grasping the sharp edges because it didn’t matter that it _fucking_ hurt like hell, what mattered was keeping yourself above the abyss, above the raging waters that constantly threatened to drown you and when these same waters have pulled you under, they will never let you go until you’ve suffocated with every little thought turned bitter and angry and hateful, until the veins under your skin turn blue and black and the air in your lungs turn to ash and sludge.

And dreams can be painful – they seep into the pores and hold fast to the cavities of your heart until all that’s left is a withered husk, and you wake up to find nothing but your own demons screaming back at you.

But dreams can be good. They can be wonderful and be filled with so much _hope_ that it hurts all the more. To Noctis, in those moments where his nighttime ghosts aren’t the ashen faces of the people he’s failed – when they aren’t crawling with the sinews of blue and green, the bleeding colors of a sylleblossom as Luna disappears into the inky darkness – in the moments where dreaming doesn’t leave an aching weight on his chest and ice for blood, it’s amber and whiskey and gold.

It’s warm and bright and calm, and in those moments, he’s not drowning in an endless sea. There’s dimmed afternoon light seeping in through the curtains, spilling on to the carpet of his room, painting the silence with pale-gold light and the ambient noise of the outside world taps at the windows of his room, unable to enter, and only soft-spoken words punctuate the air, almost dancing along the same rhythm of his heart. In those dreams, his eyes are open a sliver, as if sleep that he had needed so long ago finally descended on him, and there’s the soft scent of sandalwood against his nose and there – he’d see, and his lips would quirk up without his conscious decision – sitting on a chair in the corner, large hands carefully holding a small book, lips tracing the words, the sentences, the frissons of elegiac writing – the melancholic touches – and when he has the energy to raise his eyes from those same careful hands, he’d see that amber gaze, burnt against his skin and—

When he wakes—

When Noctis wakes, he doesn’t wake to the image of Gladio standing from his seat, long legs carrying him close, leaning over to smile at him. When he wakes, what he sees is beaten-down wood, the underside of panels that have been in the rain for far too long. The scent of earth and, well, _shit_ hits his nostrils and he sniffs hard, regretting it immediately when his throat complains at the disgusting smell and he starts coughing.

Typical – Noctis finally allows himself to enjoy his feelings for his Shield and he ends up literally inhaling shit. Fucking ace.

He rises from where he had been laying, turning his head to find that he’s been laying on a clump of hay. Turning his gaze around, he takes in the taller bushels of hay, tied and set to the side, the open windows and the wooden walls, the pens and the chocobo chicks sleeping. There’s a lethargy to his movements – a haziness to his vision, like shadows creeping at the peripheries, and his limbs feel strangely heavy. There’s no pounding in his head but he does feel a bit as if he’s swimming, floating, tired eyes roving around what seems to be the inside of a barn.

There’s a dull ache in his shoulders and down to his legs, but it doesn’t really _bother_ him as much as the numbness did. He raised a hand to pat at his face, flinching a bit as his fingers slide over what seemed to be a cut. He remembers running into the forest after the chocobo, and he remembers two gigantoads showing up like it’s nobody's business. He sighs, grimacing as memories of the battle return.

It’d be easy to say it was his first battle without the armiger and his magic, to fully rely on his physical prowess and his speed and it was the mere surprise of another opponent that sent him running back. It’d be easy to say all that, if it were _true_ . It wasn’t the first battle, not even the second or the third. He had climbed the levels of Zegnautus Keep by himself, had run through thin, constricting tunnels and hallways, chased after run-down broken troopers that acted more like daemonic ghouls than cyborgs. He had the ring of the Lucii with him, yes, and its power had been his saving grace – but if he could survive a cybernetic castle that seemed intent on murdering him with nothing but a ring he had _no_ familiarity with, then surely he could have managed to hold off two gigantoads with a very familiar weapon like a sword.

He has to admit it: he’s grown weak. He’s exhausted and cold and he hasn’t had any real food in a _long_ time and he was stupid not to run at the first sight of the creatures. On top of that, he remembers seeing the green toxin on the blade of the sword he was wielding, the same sword he had cut on, the same toxin in his bloodstream. If that chocobo hadn’t been there – if that pink fucking chocobo hadn’t pulled at him to run off—

Speaking of, Noctis raises his head and spies the half-open entrance of the barn. Before he had passed out, and he honestly thought he was going to die then, he heard a song – a voice? – well, whatever it was, it wasn’t the chocobo. Or maybe it was. In a time of dead gods and extinguished royal lines, anything could be possible.

There’s a light squawking – a soft ‘kweh’ – and he turns his head around to see that same pink chocobo behind him. It cocked its head to the side, big brown eyes looking at him, legs folded under it as it rested on the pile of hay.

“Hey.” He says, fucking poetic the moment he wakes up. “So…what’s up?”

And because the bird is an asshole, it leans over and he’s half-terrified, half-still-feeling-a-bit-well-high, that it’ll pluck his eyes out, only for it to tug a leaf out of his hair with its beak. Together with a few strands, too.

“Ow.” A hand to area, Noctis glares at the bird before sucking in a deep breath, choking only once at the smell, before letting it out, shuddering and slow. He turns back to the entrance, to the clumps of snow outside, scattered amidst the _brown_ of the earth and, well, when was the last time he had seen that color?

Managing to stand on his legs, feels them somewhat intact in spite of the pain, Noctis makes sure to take each step close to the door in even, _careful_ almost babyish steps because, yeah, he might have survived that goddamn prophecy and might have survived a war and might have survived a daemon-controlled maniac but he wouldn’t put it past his luck to tumble and fall into a pile of shit and _suffocate_. Sometimes, life is shitty like that.

He chuckles at the imagery, and he can already imagine the almost-painful way Prompto would have groaned at him for the terrible pun. He takes another step and hears the chocobo shifting, slowly standing to follow him, even coming close to stand beside him. He glares at it, raises a brow. “What?”

A cock of its head and he rolls his eyes, wondering what in the world even made him initiate that. Heh, maybe he _was_ crazy.

He turns around again, now noticing the absence of a weight in his grip and finds no sign of the sword. His pack, he recalls with a downtrodden sigh, had been turned to paste by the gigantoad’s stupid weight. Without the sword, though, he was practically a walking target.

But a target for who…or what? He was no one at this point.

Still, the sword provided a security for him. Sure, this far out, the chances of him being recognized – especially with his unkempt hair and the scruff on his face – was slim to none, but that didn’t mean anything when he could just potentially be a target to anyone else. A lone person with no weapons, half-starved to death, wandering around in the snow? Noctis is not naïve – he’s heard the stories. In imperial territories, slavers and mercenaries were aplenty.

Still – what was he to do? Just let himself lie here and never going home? He has to take that step. He has to try. He’s made it this far, right?

Point is, he’s survived this long. Everything else is details.

He reaches the wooden door of the barn – less of a door and more of a gate, really – and manages to hold on to the ledge, leaning his weight against it as he spies the outside world. It was daytime, that he was sure of, and a part of him starts to realize that it had been afternoon the last time he was, well, _awake_ in any normal capacity. Meaning someone had moved him to the barn when he was unconscious – unless the pink chocobo also managed to gain enough weight to pull him in.

He ignores the bird for a moment, tucks his head out and sees the edge of the forest – the same forest he came from – and sees the same mill, towering over a small house. It looked dilapidated, the paint chipping off and the snow pooling on the alcoves and the roof, but there was a beaten-up looking truck parked next to it, and the ground around the house seemed to have been shoveled, the snow in piles on the side of the barn instead. The windows are frosted, and he can’t make out anything from the distance – but he does see something small and brightly colored hanging around the frames. There are a pair of boots set next to the door, a shovel resting on the wall next to it. He doesn’t know that he’d been holding his breath, shuddering as he lets it out, relieved at signs of human life.

He doesn’t know if it’s smart to approach the house, even if they were people, would they be trustworthy? If they see him approach, dressed in an unflattering mixture of imperial and Lucian colors, would their first instinct be to lock him out? Or if they couldn’t be bothered with that, maybe just shoot him?

Then again, no time like the present to find out what the future has got up its filthy fucking sleeve.

The weather seemed to be holding up relatively well, for him considering his situation, the sky looking drawn but not seeming as if it was raring to test Noctis’ newfound immunity to the cold. There was light, a bit dimmed, but manageable. He could make out more trees in the distance past the house, and they looked greener. A good sign.

His gaze returns to the house, and nods to himself, slowly waddling through the mishmash of frost and earth, each step deliberate and careful. The chocobo follow him out of the barn and he couldn’t be bothered with shooing it away, settling with a glare that lack its usual fire. He has half a mind to test the door but resists – barging into someone’s home would be a _wonderful_ way to announce himself; they’d probably shower him with love and trophies and maybe a shotgun to the face. What he does, though, is hold a hand to the wooden shafts on the balcony of the house, trying to stand on his toes and peer into the windows. There’s a small gate at the landing on top of the small stairs up the balcony, probably to keep the animals out.

Hmm, did he count as an animal?

His steps make a weird creaky sound when he reaches the stairs, they echo in the almost-silence, followed by the soft tapping of the chocobo’s claws on the ground. He takes another step up and swears at the same sound being made – it was not unlike a horror movie’s stupid sound effects – and he winces as another step makes a particularly loud scrape like it was about to give under his weight.

This close, he sees that the colored objects decorating the frames of the windows were paper flowers. They looked old and weathered – understandably so with all the snow around them – but the way they were made, neatly cut and tastefully bunched together, spoke a lot to Noctis. He hopes that was a sign that when he inevitably meets the owner of the house, he won’t get a bullet to his head or a knife to his neck. Maybe they’d offer tea first before dismembering him.

When he gets to the landing – and the damn creaking stops, _finally_ – he stands and breathe, clutching at the beam next to him for support. He wasn’t really weak, per se, but the lethargy did still remain. It was so easy to just fall into the snow and curl up and _sleep_ but the gnawing in his stomach told him otherwise. So, he grits his teeth, stifles a sigh, and takes two more steps to the front door, and knocks – loud and hard over the sibilant hiss of the snowy quiet.

And—

There—

Was nothing.

Quiet.

Followed by…more nothing.

Followed by—

Just the creak, dulled and quiet, from beyond the door – behind it? – approaching it with slow, _even_ steps as his breath stills and his blood pauses and he’s fucking sure his own heart stops beating as the knob slowly turns, creaking ever so _slightly_ and the door is opening a sliver – and all this apprehension is bad for his heart, isn’t it?

The door cracks open, and he doesn’t anything inside – just dimmed light and shadows until he realizes he’s staring way too high and the figure is small, maybe by his waist?, and yeah, he’s not tall but the other person is shorter.

Also a lot younger, from what he’s gathered.

The girl that meets his gaze is young, he gathers she’s around four or five, her wide blue eyes making her look even younger than the softness of her cheeks. She has a jacket on herself, with an animal pelt around the neckline and – well, honestly? – that looked a lot warmer than what _he_ was currently wearing. The light caught at her pale blond hair – funny, it looked almost silvery for a moment – and it gave her an ethereal sort of glow. Probably because with all the snow and the light, matching her hair and her eyes.

She didn’t look afraid. Wary, yes, and curious but not terrified. Noctis doesn’t realize that his mouth is open as if in speech but had all the words robbed from him because, yeah, he did not really expect a kid to open the door for him and—

Shit—

His coat was still on, right? With all the blood and the shit on him? He probably smells horrible, and his nose just got used to it. The girl didn’t seem to notice though, just staring up at him, innocent and pure and fuck—

She reminds him of Prompto and his chest heaves.

He opens his mouth and—

Fucking blank.

Okay, so Noctis knows he’s not the most social person in the world. He’s not _a_ social or anything of that sort, but there’s a reason why people genuinely flock to Prompto more than they do to Noctis and when they _do_ , it’s less because of his _stellar_ social skills and more because he’s a _prince_ than anything. He’s always found it, well, not _hard_ but challenging to interact with others and, frankly, that was one highlight of being outside Insomnia, before everything blew into shit.

Save for a few others, no one really noticed him as anything other than a person. He wasn’t known as the Crown Prince of Lucis – he was on the run, they had to hide who he was – and it was easy for him to blend into anonymity, to keep himself quiet and unassuming because out there, people didn’t know who he was. He didn’t have a royal reputation to uphold, no need to wave and smile politely at genuflecting strangers. He could just be Noctis, not prince, not anything. Just Noctis.

He’s not a social butterfly, but he really thinks that he could handle a conversation with a five-year old girl.

The thing was – he’s exhausted, starved, covered in another man’s blood and stinks of shit. The girl before him is _statuesque_ by contrast, and suddenly he’s biting his tongue because looking at her in the eyes just made him realize how _different_ he was.

Not even counting the cultural differences — he knows that they all speak the same language, the same in Insomnia and the same in Altissia and Tenebrae and Gralea. He knows it, but to places like this, outlying provinces where the only sign of civilization was an ancient-looking truck, he falls short.

But he perseveres, anyway.

“Hello.” He manages to breathe that one out after a pause long enough that her eyes start to shift—that was good, right? Phrasebook, page one. The universal greeting for humanity. Doesn’t matter where you come from, that word is pretty much the starting point of human interaction. It’s not the most eloquent thing in the world, but its step in the right direction. Hopefully.

The girl doesn’t respond yet, her eyes slipping down to his clothes where the red of the trooper’s blood had turned a dark brown. He hopes it’s noticeable, even though it _actually_ is. The girl looks back up at him, and her lips part open, small little thing.

“Get away from ‘er.” A voice calls out, hard and rough. Masculine. There’s an accent to it, sounds a bit like Altissian. Maybe. He’s not sure, Ignis is the brains of the group, anyway. He turns, still, because it was rude not to turn, and he has to bank on strangers’ kindness (if that even exists still) in order to make it back home in one piece. Plus, the voice sounds cold and sharp, _un_ friendly and, yeah, maybe he should have taken more time to let the words actually sink in…

Because there’s a _shot_ gun barrel in his face.

He blinks.

The man behind the gun cocks it.

Shit _fuck._

The girl behind him makes a sound – he doesn’t really register it, not at all – as the man behind the gun glares at him with icy blue eyes, enough to freeze the blood in his veins and his own soul. It’s even cold enough to freeze even the Glacian and Noctis is not exaggerating that at all.

The barrel is pointed at him, directly at his nose and he doesn’t even so much as _breathe_ as he takes in the weapon, doesn’t even see it _tremble_ a bit and he knows that the man behind it is not averse to using it at all. Cor taught him that once – a steady hand holding a gun has shed blood before, and it will shed blood again – and, fuck, he knows Cor is _never_ wrong. So, he doesn’t breathe, doesn’t even blink again because the man behind the gun won’t lose anything, except a noticeably less-bloody balcony and Noctis was set to lose _everything._

He opens his lips, and he hopes the man can hear the truth in them because he fucking needs him to. He can’t stop here. Can’t stop, ever.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” He says, as slow and soft and soothing as he can. He doesn’t know how the man takes it in, when the eyes don’t even leave his gaze and he feels the sweat sticking to his back, feels it accumulate on his palms and, damn it, if he so much as _pisses_ his own pants right now, he wouldn’t even care. If it means he doesn’t get a mouthful of bullets, he’d gladly piss his pants over his father’s grave. Anything to survive.

The man – who towered over him like a mountain, not just in height but with his broad shoulders and the heavy coat he was wearing made him look like a bear of a man – pressed the barrel against his forehead in a second and Noctis fucking swears his heart trips and squeezes so hard it forgets to beat. The other’s words are deadly. “I said, get away from her.”

Noctis finally realizes that the girl had been saying ‘dad’ all this time.

Fuck, okay, he _gets_ it. So, with the man’s unflinching frozen gaze on him, Noctis slowly steps away from the door, slowly raising his hands to the sides of his head, steps careful and purposefully languid, until he’s standing parallel to the balcony floor and the man had taken his former position, body hiding the door – and his daughter.

He’s terrified, he _fucking_ is, and he knows that he only has one chance to get out of this alive. Talk. There’s nothing else he can do. The moment he even breathes _wrong_ , he’ll be pumped full of so much lead that they’ll have to cremate him after, _if_ they find any trace of him left. Even if he could somehow, magically, _miraculously_ get the gun away from the man, the large biceps don’t seem to be there simply for display. The man would probably just punch him in the face and he wouldn’t be surprised if his fist breaks his skull open.

“I’m harmless,” he says. He knows how easy it is to lie and he doesn’t let himself feel disheartened when he didn’t even get so much as a blink in response. “I promise. I just…I just wanna go home. I don’t want to be here. Honest. I just need to know _where_ to go. I need to go home. Please.”

He says those words as gently as he can, as lowly and as honestly as he can because he really is honest. He can’t tell the man, can never tell him who he really is, but everything else is true. His real identity will be hidden up for now…maybe forever, but everything else is honest and clear. Anything to survive.

The iciness of the blue gaze directed at him doesn’t look any warmer – the color is beautiful, really, it is and it reminds Noctis of the way light gleams off a frozen river, but they’re directed at him with such _coldness_ and maybe he understands a bit why the ancients feared Shiva most of all.

“No.” The word is clipped and stony. The gun pointed at him does not move. “You’re lying. You’re here to rob us blind. You’re here to hurt my family.”

Noctis feels the world shift under him as he begins to shake his head and lower his hands into a placating gesture, stopping abruptly as the barrel is pressed against his slightly-turned cheek. His words are hurried and desperate. “Please, please, no, I just wanna go home, pleas—“

The gun is shoved with so much force that Noctis has to fall to his knees to avoid falling. Terror drums into his heart and his vision and he could feel his spirit leaving his body. “ _No_ , no, I just wanna go home, please, honest, oh my gods, _please_ —“

“ _Dad!”_ The girl shouts but her father doesn’t pay her any attention, eyes unflinching above the barrel. Eyes that have killed before and Noctis’s breathing starts turning ragged as the cold crawls up his legs.

“Please, _please_ , believe me, I just wanna go home—“

“ _Shut up!_ ” The barrel is thrust into his cheek and he ignores the sting of the end bringing a tear to his left eye. “Go to your room, Claire.”

He doesn’t see the girl shake her head or any of that sort, all he knows is that the barrel in his face is not shaking, the man’s gaze is not flinching and, damn it, the blood in his veins has turned to ice and Noctis knows, he’s going to die here, he’s going to get a bullet into his head and it’ll explode like a duck egg, blood and brain and bone splattered on the wooden floor and into the snow like a fucking scarlet flower and, shit, he’ll never be able to go home, he’ll never be able to see his family ever again and, fuck, he finally ran out of chances, hasn’t he?

Maybe this was all a joke. Maybe he was never meant to go home.

Maybe this was just one final taste of life before it got violently ripped from him.

Maybe things were never meant to be.

Damn it.

He could feel the _rage_ and the anger and the desperation and the _why, then? Why? Why is everything so fucking unfair?!_ in his throat and in his eyes, and, shit, he misses his family so much—

He just wants to run into that familiar study and bury his face into his father’s chest—

He just wants to run through unending fields of blue, Luna’s warm hand in his—

He just wants to lounge on the sofa and play King’s Knight and feel Prompto’s feet stacked over his lap—

He just wants to sit on the island counter in his apartment and watch Ignis’s back as the other cooks—

He just wants to wake up to the soft voice of Gladio recounting a story, hand in his hair and—

“I,” he says, voice small and pitiful and fuck—“I want to go home. I want to go home.” He doesn’t realize his lip is trembling. “ _Please_.”

The left corner of his mouth draws even lower. Every time his gaze circles above the little ring of prospective death pointed at him, he feels another discrete fucking drop of sweat running down his spine. Shit, a gun can make anyone into a god – in that second, in the infinitesimal space between time, absolute control over the fate of another person.

Hopefully the other could see that. Hopefully there’s a heart under all that ice. Hopefully there’s something fundamentally, undeniably and intrinsically human, tied to no speech, fixed in no skin, weighted with nothing but what it means to be alive, to fear and to survive.

Hopefully he could see past the blood on his coat, in his hands and on his face and see him as nothing more or less than a lost, lost, _stupidly_ lost little boy.

Hopefully, _pleaseohgodsplease,_ that’s what the tightening of the man’s brows mean—

The tilt of the barrel as his hand shifts, slightly, almost _microscopic—_

The way his right shoulder doesn’t lose all of its tension but relaxes just slightly—

Hopefully, _surely_ —

He lowers the shotgun, steps back, and looks at Noctis, carefully.

—

Fuck.

Prompto was right. Puppy eyes really can get you anything.

_Shit._

“Get up.” The man says and Noctis doesn’t even so much as _thinks_ before he’s back up on his feet, hands still in the air, eyes still not moving away from the man’s gaze. The shot gun has been lowered but the man’s hand is still on the trigger, and his gaze is still frigid. “Take off your coat.”

“O—okay.” Noctis says, about to turn, but the man’s glare leaves him frozen. Alright, so he’ll be undressing in front of a stranger and his five-year old daughter. Fine. He can live with that. He can live with anything if it means he gets to _live_ for another day, another hour, another second. With fingers that he won’t deny are even trembling, he slowly unbuttons the coat, making sure that each open button is visible and clear, not making any hasty movements because he has _no_ idea how easy it is for his luck to run out _now_ —

When he’s unbuttoned the entire thing, he waits for the man to nod before he slowly grasps the lapels and pulls the coat off him, ignoring the sudden chill that assaulted his bare forearms as the thick cloth that had been his only shield was slowly removed, until he drops them at his feet.

“Kick it away.”

On some other day, he’d complain at the command, but he’s beyond grateful now. He kicks the coat back, eyes not moving from the man’s, until the coat is considerably out of his reach. He tries his best not to shiver at the chill when the man’s eyes rove over the intricacies of the clothes he had under the coat. He knows it’s not what he expected – the gold lining, the royal chains of command, the rich texture of the cloth, the small _jewels_ sewn into the lining of where coat meets neck. The sleeves were ripped, yes, but everything else – the gold and the jewelry –were valuable but also _very_ identifiable. Sure, he doesn’t look like the King of Lucis – but he does look like a bedraggled noble. Shit, he just hopes the man wouldn’t kill him just so he could sell off his clothes.

The eyes are back on him again, still as cold as ever. “You’re Lucian.”

 _Fuck_. “Y—yes.”

The man is silent, so is his daughter. Noctis counts to ten as he feels his fingers grow numb with the cold.

“Don’t move.” He says and Noctis nods, waits with bated breath as the man slowly steps up to him, shotgun still pointed at the ground. The man reaches out with his free hand and Noctis doesn’t breathe as the man pats his waist, then his pockets, down to his legs and boots. He pats the insides of his legs and up his thighs and Noctis doesn’t even have the mind to feel any semblance of embarrassment, not when the shotgun is still open and, fuck, the safety is still off, and the glare the man had on him literally erased any thought of being shy—

(Heh. Maybe the next time he gets a boner because of Gladio, all he has to think about was this man glaring at him and he’ll turn soft so fast—)

As if satisfied with his inspection, the man retracts his hand and steps away. He doesn’t turn to his daughter, but Noctis knows his next words are directed at her. “Get inside.”

The girl doesn’t move and Noctis _prays_ that she obeys her father’s words because he has no idea what’ll happen to him if her father starts to get even _more_ pissed off now—

“You’re not going to shoot him?”

The words are spoken evenly although there’s a trace of timidity in them, and, for a moment, Noctis doesn’t know where it’s coming from until he realizes they came from the girl. His eyes shift to her for a moment, to the wide-eyed gaze - they’re careful, surprised but not scared - that was directed at her father, and he wonders - for a girl to ask that, for a girl to say the words as placidly as she did, no reservation save the slightest frailty, for her to ask a question that determined the fate of another person - in the icy meadows, the craggy peaks and the infinite coldness blanketing the surroundings -

“No.” The father says, and though the word is spoken with distaste and coldness, Noctis feels air and life run back into his lungs and he doesn’t hide the gasp that he lets out the moment the word registers in his mind. The man doesn’t stop looking at him, the glare is still ferocious and terrifying, but when the girl disappears from the doorway, he doesn’t put the gun back up like Noctis expected. His eyes continue to inspect Noctis as he slowly lets his hands down, until they’re on his sides and slightly trembling with the cold. He hears some clinkering from inside but he doesn’t dare ask - not even sure if _moving_ was allowed but he’ll take anything to keep himself on his own feet without bullets finding themselves lodged into the cavity of his chest. He’s not really interested on trying out for a third resurrection.

The man doesn’t let go of the shotgun but he does step a bit aside, pushing the door open with his free hand, his eyes still on Noctis. He hide how strong his trembling is as he understands what the man means, when he cocks his head towards the door slightly, not even hiding the disapproval in his eyes. Noctis doesn’t care though - he nods to the man and walks towards the open door, sidestepping the man with the widest berth he could afford and finds himself inside a quaint little room.

It was small - yes - but it was cozy, as the warmth of a radiator continues to stave off the cold, and he looks around. The woodwork is old but sturdy, and the walls had a pale yellow color, dark splotches in some areas - maybe because of the cold and the rain - stacked with photo frames that have seen better days. It seemed like a cross between a living room and a kitchen:  a threadbare couch facing towards the door, an old wooden table set between him and it, little cabinets against the wall, books and papers resting haphazardly atop. A worn carpet rested on the floor, running beneath the small dining table fit for four, at most, a bowl of what seemed to be nuts on top of a coaster. A stone counter was against the furthest wall, holding a sink and a stack of plates, a mechanical cooler under it, its metal edges rusting a bit but looking functional.

The girl - Claire, he remembers - was setting bowls on the table, pausing when he entered and he doesn’t know how to react to the small smile she sent his way. He hears the man behind him and hears the click of the door as it’s shut. He turns his head to see the man - the father - slide a deadbolt in and when he looked up at the blue gaze, they were as cold as ever, like it took everything in the man to let Noctis even _breathe_ . Not wanting to try the other’s patience but not knowing what to do, he flounders a bit - mouth open to speak but no sound escaping - and he has to wait for the man to point towards the table with his chin, a brow raised as if to say _any sort of funny business and I’ll feed your entrails to the chocobos_ and Noctis swallows because, yeah, he doesn’t believe, even for half a second, that the man was joking.

“Sit down.” Claire said, her voice friendly and sweet, smiling up at him, and he swallows again until he’s sure his insides have been turned to mush because there’s blood on his face, he’s sure, and there’s blood on his hands and no little girl should smile at him like that. No little girl should look at him with that much kindness because the world will never be kind to anyone, least of all to little girls like her. He knows that intimately.

But he doesn’t say anything, and maybe he tries to smile back only to feel the cracks on his lips and the dull sting of them ripping open and he stops, grimacing slightly as he grips the back of the seat nearest to him, pausing a bit to wonder if he should take off his boots, only to see the father walk around the table to sit next to where his daughter was, his boots still on, and decides to forego that. He doesn’t realize his legs are tired until he actually sits, not hiding the sigh as he feels the softness of the seat rest under him. It was almost like a miracle, at this point.

Something good - something _amazing_ \- something that smells so fucking extraordinary hits his nostrils and he turns his head, his gaze following Claire as she reaches up with her small hands to grip the handles of the pot on the stove and he’s half-afraid it’ll from her hands - she barely reached the top of the counter - and, yeah, he’s grateful towards them for not turning him into chocobo feed but he also wants to be angry because why was _she_ doing the work -

Claire picks up the pot without difficulty, her expression serene as she places it on top of the table, steam rising from the inside and Noctis feels both his soul and stomach screaming and groaning, clawing at his skin and begging him for scraps. His eyes catch the father’s and they’re _there_ and maybe there’s a bit of condescension there, or maybe apprehension, or pure dislike for city boys like him that had it easy, with their walls and technology and factories and -

In places like this, in the wilderness and the provinces and the rural life, it was not easy.

He keeps his head down, comments silent even to his own mind, as a basket is placed on the table, stale-looking bread, and the scent of whatever it was in the pot slithering past his nostrils. When a bowl is placed in front of him, in his line of vision, he looks up to find Claire next to him, still smiling. Her father looked as if he was a second from jumping him if he so much as said the wrong word to his daughter.

“Thank you.” He tries to put all of his gratitude into those two words and maybe they work, because her smile grows bigger and, fuck, this has been the _kindest_ thing anyone has ever done for him in the last few days and maybe the wobble in his throat is more genuine than he cares to admit.

He watches her walk around the table to sit next to her father, her slim shoulders barely coming up to the table and watches as the man picks up pot and pours _soup_ into his bowl and Noctis watches the liquid slosh before the man does the same for Claire. When the pot is returned to the table, he hesitates, not sure if he should be reaching out for it when he _desperately_ wants to, but Claire continues to smile at him so - that must mean it’s okay, right? It has to be.

Damn it, he’s no good when it comes to normal human interaction. He’s not even sure if he could be considered _normal_ at this point.

With slightly trembling hands, he grabs the pot and pours the broth into his bowl - it’s a grey color, but it smelled _perfect_ and he spies chunks of meat floating and he doesn’t even _feel_ that it’s hot when he grabs his spoon and starts to dig into it, his hunger - suddenly announcing its existence after days of near-starved conditions - taking the reins of his hand and mouth. He vaguely registers the other two slowly start eating, at a much slower pace compared to him, but he doesn’t care because he’s fucking _ravenous_ and he hasn’t eaten anything remotely intact in gods know how long and, shit, the soup could have been gruel for the farm animals and he wouldn’t mind because it tastes so goddamn good, spicy and warm and Ignis would be crying at this masterpiece -

It’s later, when the seconds could have been hours and the hours could have been _decades_ for all he cares, does he realize that the sounds he’s been hearing, the slight whimpers thudding at the edge of his awareness, were coming from him that he _does_ slow down, eyes wide as he looks up to find an unamused blue gaze directed at him, and he doesn’t even have it in him to feel ashamed at his lack of manners as the man pushes the basket of bread towards him. Claire is looking up at him from her bowl, gripping the spoon, but her smile is a little sad and he doesn’t know _why_ she’s looking at him like that -

He starts to notice the discomfort in his stomach and he breathes through his mouth, the hard spoon gripped tightly in his hand as he grits his teeth through the slight ache. The idea that _maybe_ he shouldn’t have been that hasty when his stomach has been pretty much used to nothing at this point finally starts to dawn at him and only breathing keeps him from vomiting -

It would have been a shame, it tasted so damn good.

Neither Claire nor her father say anything, they continue eating – observing him even when their gazes are on their spoons and on their food – and it takes a while for him not to throw up what was probably the remains of his breakfast-slash-lunch-slash-dinner together with the mush that was his liquefied organs. With a hand to his stomach, he feels sweat trickle on the skin above his lip and by his temples and his prematurely-frozen body slowly starts to realize the heat of the soup he basically poured into his mouth.

When he doesn’t feel like puking anymore, he breathes a sigh of relief and – ignores the voice of Ignis in his head reprimanding him for gorging – tries to even the smile he sends Claire’s way, even when his lips tremble a second after.

The father – he still doesn’t know his name so he relents with calling him Frosty, just because he can and because he’s pretty sure the man is made of ice – pushes the basket of bread towards him with a finger and he gets the memo, doesn’t need to be told twice as he grabs one with his bare hand. His fingers are streaked with dirt and sweat but he doesn’t care, bringing the bread back up to him and breaking a small piece. When he bites into it, it feels and tastes just as stale as he imagined it. He’s not surprised, with how _cold_ everything outside the house was, it was a miracle they managed to scrounge up any semblance of food.

His eyes flick to Frosty’s bare hands, takes note of the blunt fingernails and the dirt under them, the bruised and worn skin on his knuckles compared to his daughter’s almost smooth skin – he notes the weather-kissed patches of skin, probably on the days of intense cold and heat, milking whatever patches of land they might have to grow some food because out here, in the provinces, in the small hamlets of life, it was survival, it was do or die and — and he swallows back the unexpected guilt and shame that wells up in him. Anything to survive.

“What’s your name?” Claire asks, out of the reverie that he’s managed to create for himself, and he looks up at her curious gaze. He can’t tell her the truth, the truth of who he was – he has to keep it to himself, only to himself and to three others – the royal family is dead, there’s no line of Lucis Caelum anymore. He’s just—

“Noct. Just Noct.” He answers, and maybe the response is shorter than what she expected but she doesn’t look put off by it. She continues to smile up at him as he takes after Frosty and dips another chunk of the bread into the soup and bites into it. It’s easier to chew with it wetter and the soup does taste amazing. Practically a feast fit for a king in the days of his starvation.

The man makes a sort of sound – maybe a snort or a grunt or a mix of both – and he’s finally _not_ looking at Noctis and his body immediately relaxes at the absence of the icy glare.

“Where’d you come from? Hope found you outside our barn.” She continues, and he wonders – she really does look like she’s five years old but her speech was intelligent, even, each word spoken crisply in spite of the pitch of her young voice.

“I…I don’t know. I don’t remember.” He answers – and he tenses a bit as Frosty looks back up at him with his response. Maybe it was _too_ honest, and sometimes honesty can sound exactly like suspicion and maybe he should have made up a story, but wouldn’t that be worse? Especially when he mixes up the lies? He’s never been good at lying. He’s shit at lying. Gladio can cut through his falsehoods with just a look, Ignis would make a small tut of disapproval at his evasion and Prompto will get this hurt, sad look on his face at not being trusted enough by his best friend to confide—

Anyway, there’s a reason why Noctis can’t lie to save himself. His friends – family – knows him _too_ well.

“Wait. Hope?” He asks, curious. There was someone else?

Claire smiles and – yeah, that really was a snort coming from Frosty over there. “Hope. My chocobo. You were hurt so he called me and that’s where we found you.”

He remembers then – the singsong voice, curious and wondering, echoing as the shadows fell on him – and, yeah, he’s also not telling that it was her precious chocobo that got him into that mess in the first place. Sure, he was planning on _stealing_ the chocobo and – well, realizing that it belonged to someone like her, he’s sure he deserves the intense guilt at the thought – running off with it, but things are the same. Anything to survive. Still—

“Oh.” He answers with the intelligence of a king. “Yeah. I got attacked. By gigantoads.”

The girl frowns, looks up at her dad just as Frosty’s lips turn even lower and basically growls the words. “Toad venom. You were knocked out for an entire day, boy.”

Before everything else, he would have bristled at the word ‘boy’. He’d feel his temper rise and his mask of nonchalance would be shaken and he’d be irritated because, damn it, just because he’s a prince who had everything done for him doesn’t mean he’s some stupid boy who can’t damn take care of himself—

But Noctis doesn’t say anything in response to the word because, maybe, he was just a boy. He could wear a crown and the ring of his family and he could be called King and Prince and Chosen One but that didn’t make him anything less than a boy playing at things beyond his control. Even the word playing was a bit too much – he was just another piece on a divine chessboard. The thought is bitter but not untrue, and he bites his lip.

“I thought so, too.” A sardonic chuckle comes to his lips after he says the word, turning back down to his food to eat.

The silence continues after, only the sound of the spoons against the wooden bowls punctuating the air.

“Where’s your family?” The question comes and he looks back up at Claire, at the tone of innocence in her words and he stops himself from opening his lips and spilling out twin scars on head and heart, the glaring mark of an unseeing gaze and the barcode pit against porcelain skin. He thinks back on his father, the smile he had on his face as he stood by the steps leading up to the Citadel as Noctis rode away, to the waxen love still tingling at the edges of his mother’s gaze, beautiful even in deathly repose, at the sylleblossom extended to him by a pale hand, her gold hair framing her cheeks, beautiful blue eyes whispering farewell as darkness swallows Luna whole—

“They’re…not around. Anymore. Gone.” He answers, tries to sound calm about it even when his voice breaks at the last word. The look on Claire’s face goes from curiosity to a well-known sadness, as if she knows the thought intimately. He eyes Frosty, at the way the hand gripping the spoon tightened just _slightly_ , the way the icy glare burning into his skin suddenly shadowed and the air in the room stiffened—

“My mom’s gone, too. It’s just daddy and me, now.” She says, and her eyes are nostalgic but there are no tears in them, even though her lips are pulled up in a sad smile. “I miss her, sometimes, but I have daddy and Hope and I’m not sad anymore.”

He wants to laugh – dear _gods_ he wants to laugh so hard at her innocence, at how utterly childish her words are, at how naïve and young and just so innocent she was and that she has no idea on what it was like to _lose_ everything, to take apart each and every little thing that ever mattered to him and set it on fire because it was _meant_ to be sacrificed and he—

He’s not sure if he wants to laugh or cry or scream because even if her words were naïve and artless, callow, didn’t make them any less true. He wasn’t alone.

“That’s good.” And the smile on his face is true. “That’s good. No one should be alone.”

The light in her smile suddenly makes it hard for him to breathe because, _fuck_ , Luna smiled like that, she looked at him and smiled like that, like he was everything and—

Damn it, he just misses her so much.

“Do you have friends, Noct?” She asks, his name a bit foreign on her lips and he miscalculates the way his heart beats because she’s looking at him so openly.

“Yeah, I do.” He holds back the grief, the pain, the intense _longing_ at the mention of his last living family, at how the need to see them, feel them, hear their voice and inhale their scents, the intensity of wanting to be near them like a fucking parasite latched to their skin had his heart squeezing so hard it might as well explode because it’s gonna happen, he’s gonna be home soon and—

And Ignis won’t have to feed every sad-looking stray he sees—

And Prompto won’t have to pout and look so much like an abandoned puppy and snap a million photos—

And Gladio won’t have to hack every practice dummy to splinters because he doesn’t do _sad_ and he—

And Noctis won’t have to spend so much time thinking, wondering – what if trailing at the edges – and his heart won’t have carry this goddamn weight crushing him—

“I don’t know where they are right now, but I’ll find them.” It’s as simple as that.

Frosty finally makes another sound to decorate their conversation, and he turns to the man, finally looks at him in spite of the frigidness of his gaze, sees the pale blond hair falling down the sides of his face and trailing above his eyes, the age-worn skin and the frown set against his brows, at his broad shoulders. He sees a bit of that in Claire, and maybe everything else is her mother’s? The kindness of that smile, the frailty of her skin, maybe even the silvery light of her hair almost like a pale rose in a certain angle. Or maybe it was also her father’s and he wonders that _maybe_ — if he imagines that kind look on the man’s scowling face and _it’s not weird, it matches, it doesn’t look out of place_ and maybe the man used to have that same softness and maybe, just maybe—

In a place like this, cold and frost gnashing at the edges, everything crystallizes over time.

“Take you to the station ‘morrow.” Frosty grunts and Noctis feels his eyes widening, unable to take in the words.

“What?”

The man doesn’t repeat his response, continues on. “Get you outta here. Station’s miles off but it runs to ‘tissia.”

He doesn’t believe it – almost can’t make himself believe it – as Frosty’s words sink in and he feels the spoon slipping from his grip to fall into his bowl, handle first. He stammers, not knowing what to say – maybe he’s refusing it, not wanting their pity or maybe not wanting to be even more of a bother to them — or maybe he’s also accepting because _anything to survive, one chance after the next_ and—

“No, _thank you_ , I can—I can walk—I can—“

Another snort. “In this winter? Save it, kid.”

He’s offering. He’s offering to help, to clean, whatever they need, he’s mumbling all that, words spilling out from his mouth, in the midst of hurried thanks and gratitude—

Frosty is unamused. “Shut your trap. Don’t even think ‘bout it. Can’t even stand on your own two legs yet. Claire’ll handle it.”

Claire agrees, still smiling at him, and maybe what he first mistook for innocence and callowness was maturity all along.

When he stands after finishing the meal, he’s unsure of what to do. The light outside the windows was dimmed but Noctis guesses that it was sometime in the afternoon. He could go back to the barn, set himself against the hay and that pink chocobo – Hope? What a stupid, _beautiful_ name – could be his makeshift pillow, but the deadbolt is still in and the Frosty’s still looking at every little move he makes. He’s pretty sure that the man won’t allow him anywhere near his daughter, especially out of sight, but the fullness of his belly, at the first actual meal he’s had in a long time, it causes his eyes to droop and – maybe he could pass out on the table? Isn’t that rude? He could—

Claire finishes setting the plates on the counter and disappears into the hallway running between the living room and kitchen, watches Frosty take a seat at the chair in the corner, and he doesn’t _know_ what to do to show how grateful he is, how _lucky_ he is, how amazed he is at his chances not running out yet—

The sound of approaching footsteps reach his ears and turns to find Claire carrying what seems to be a thick towel and—

“Here.” She says, holding it out for him to grasp. “There’s hot water in the shower. You should be quick before it turns cold.”

He’s speechless.

He’s ran out of words.

He simply nods, maybe feeling a little _too_ emotional at the idea of a shower, of feeling warmth against his skin and ducks his head as he follows the direction of Claire’s pointed finger.

The bathroom is small, the walls ancient and molding in some parts, an old steel shower piped next to a radiator, installed next to a once-white ceramic toilet now pasty-looking with age. The tiles on the floor could have been a bright blue color but they’ve turn dark over time, a basket of toiletries sitting next to the sink on the floor. It was small and not as well maintained, even the ones in the caravans they used to stay in, in the little towns of Duscae and Cleigne—

But to Noctis, right now, it was priceless.

He doesn’t even hesitate closing the door after him, setting the towel on the hooks behind it. He takes off his boots, grimaces at the snow and earth lodged into the nooks and sets it aside. His stupid dress shirt follows, and he almost laughs at how he’s also planning to get back into them after, eyeing the rips of the sleeves. He frowns a bit, pads the chest are and feels the bulge of the ring. He hasn’t lost it yet, it seems. He hurries down with his pants, already shivering a bit from whatever cold seems to seep in through the walls.

When he looks down on his body, sees his own skin bare and unclothed, and finds no trace of any sword wound on his chest – sees only the calluses and the cuts from his tumble in the forest, at the paleness of his fingernails from the cold – it’s funny how he keeps on thinking _I’m alive, I’m fucking alive._

He grips the shower knob and turns it, watches the water sprinkling out and watches as steam slowly starts to rise, the radiator making a humming noise before he reaches out with a hand, feels the heat of the water against his skin. With a bit of excitement at the idea of _finally_ being clean, Noctis heads into the warmth of the shower, can’t stop the moan of pleasure escaping his throat as his entire body is covered in warmth, seeping into his hair and down his skin. He just stands there, lets the hot water run through him, encasing him in a suit of warmth, chasing the cold away, his eyes closed, and the thought – the idea of two strangers willing to help him – has him trembling even under the heat.

The water running down his legs and under his feet grow murky and dark with each passing second, dirt and grime and snow coalescing with the heat, traces of blood running down and he rinses his hair out, feels every strand against his fingers, working out the kinks – the bits of earth and dirt stuck to his skin – and each scrub has him feeling cleaner, newer – each drop of water against his skin scalding him like a hard-earned catharsis—

He bends down to grab the soap – doesn’t let the guilt set in – as he lathers his skin with it, his arms and his legs, down his groin and his rear, all the way up to his face, his nose full of that soft recognizable scent of _soap_ – doesn’t know if it’s some flower, but it’s unmistakable – and soapy fingers run up his hair. He groans again as he work scratches at his head, before the soap is washed down, leaving him new.

It could have been a few minutes, a few hours – an eternity – when he finishes the shower, when the water starts turning cold and he steps out, wipes it all away with the towel, and it’s when he turns that he finds the mirror – sees his own face starting back at him.

The face that greets him is ragged, coarse, sallow and sickly but alive. _Alive_.

He reaches up, feels the scruff against his chin, the tangled hair, black and wet, sticking to his face. His lips are chapped, marks of dried blood on the cracks, the tip of his nose red. There’s a sheet of paleness to his skin, little marks on his skin – wounds and sunburn and frostbite, from his trek through the cold – exhausted and starving – he’s sure, and the circles under his eyes are dark, noticeable even. Still, there’s no mistaking the _life_ in the dark blue eyes staring back at him, even if they’re a bit haunted.

He looks thinner, weaker, but he’s alive and even if his smile looks more like a skeletal grimace, he’s breathing, there’s air in his lungs and he’s going to make it home.

There’s a knock on the door, Claire’s voice echoing through the wood, and he opens it a sliver, still aware of his nudity. She smiles up at him, the opposite of their first meeting, and there are clothes in her hands.

The words are unsteady when he speaks. “Please— _thank you_ —but you don’t—“

She smiles and just pushes the clothes through the opening of the door. “You can’t go to sleep in those, you know.”

He’ll blame it on his exhaustion. He’ll blame it on the feeling of satisfaction he gained from having an actual meal in a long time. He’ll blame it on anything else but the idea that maybe, with a smile like that – kind and unconditional and warm – not unlike Luna’s, that maybe he just can’t say no to such an honest display of charity.

And he’ll not pin it on the idea that maybe, just maybe, Luna’s that amazing, reaching out to him even in death.

He doesn’t stop saying his thanks until Claire closes the door, and he pulls the clothes up – they’re simple, baggy jeans and a grey shirt, and a thick coat. He guesses that it was her father’s, judging by the size, but it didn’t matter if they were two sets larger than him, didn’t matter that the neckline was unraveling or that there were laundry soap marks and patches scattered on it. He has to go home, has to find _some_ little way he can repay them because—

Fuck it. There are good people in the world. People like them. People like Frosty and Claire – who barely had anything but was willing to share what they had with a stranger like him. It was a fucking miracle, a fucking godsend – a dream come true.

When he’s dressed, he slips into his boots and folds his clothes, carries them over his arm as he hangs the towel back on the hooks. When he feels the weight of the ring in the inner pocket, he hesitates, before pulling it out and stuffing it inside the pocket of the jeans he was wearing. Not really secure, but he’ll take what he can get at this point.

He steps out of the bathroom and heads back to the living room, finds Claire sitting on the dining table, a book open before her. She smiles up at him, blue (almost pale, almost grey) eyes looking at him and he feels they could almost see _right_ through him. Frosty was still by his own chair in the corner, the shotgun resting against the wall, and he seemed to be carving something with the blocks of wood against the leg of the chair, hunting knife gripped steadily. He nods to him before deciding to slowly make his way to the sofa, setting his clothes on the floor by his feet as he sits down, pressing his side against the armrest.

The hum of the radiator by the door has his eyelids drooping, the exhaustion setting into him with the weight of a kujata. His limbs drop to his sides and his head lolls back to the rest, setting lightly against the wall. It seems the last few hours finally caught up to him, his body weary from him pushing it onwards and onwards – always moving, always forward, go – and the sound of the pages of a book being turned reminds him of the slow afternoons spent with Gladio, the sharp blade of the knife against the wood has him thinking of Ignis cutting up unwanted vegetables into his meals and the radiator almost sounds like Prompto humming and—

Here, in front of the heat, almost sinking into the softness of the sofa, the warmth of the clothes, the scent of detergent in his nostrils, it’s all lulling him to sleep so fast. Well, damn. If Frosty plans to murder him in his sleep, there won’t be any pain (he hopes), and it wouldn’t be his own fault, and…

Well. He already told them – Gladio, Ignis and Prompto – before, that he wasn’t coming back, that when the dawn comes, the dark plague running amok starting to fade, that when the sun finally peeks over the horizon, he won’t be there to share it with them. It’s not like they’ll have the opportunity to be disappointed. They’ve all moved on, probably. Maybe. He still wants to see them, though. Just one more moment –

And if they’ve moved on, then he will to. He’ll drift to wherever life takes him.

Hopefully he won’t, though. Hopefully he’ll wake up once more, another line on the tally board of his life. Hopefully tomorrow he’ll be on the way home, to the answers of all his what-ifs and the could-have-beens.

His eyelids close, the softness around him enveloping him closer than possible, comfortable and he smiles as he falls asleep, to the thought— _hopefully_.

∞

When he surfaces to consciousness, gods know how long he had slept, the first thing he notices is that he had fallen halfway through in his slumber, slumped over the rest of the couch, legs still askew and hanging, a blanket over him. The radiator that greets him is still humming strongly, and he rises, noting the daylight creeping. There’s a sound to the left – the kitchen – and he turns to see Frosty looking at him, a steaming mug on the table, before turning back to a journal he was holding in his hand. There’s a kettle on the table, next to two mugs, and the idea of _caffeine_ has him raring up, the blanket falling off his shoulder.

He fingers the edge of the thin cloth for a moment, before he’s stretching, working out the kinks, and he’s up – there’s gunk, surely, in his eyes – but he fixes the blanket first, folding it and setting it on the couch. Although his first step was uneven, there’s energy in his body – a good night’s rest on something decent for once – and when he sits back down, he turns his head to see Claire just coming out of the doorway, her hair looking recently washed, cheeks a bit red and she’s dressed in a thicker coat now, and she’s holding—

“Good morning, Noct. I’m sorry I couldn’t fix your shirt.” He’s sure he looks like an idiot, just sitting there, mouth agape, as she places his clothes in his hands, feels them, sees how _clean_ they are and how warm – as if recently pressed – and he looks to the sleeves, to the way the ripped edges were cut and sewn back, and it wasn’t perfect – far from it – there were too many holes, too many singed areas, but the idea, the simple charity opened to him—

He wants to hug her. Hard.

He doesn’t, though. Frosty’ll be pissed off his ass.

He says ‘it’s perfect’ and it’s honest and the way she smiles that Luna-like smile doesn’t help the ever-growing _hope_ in his chest from expanding all the more.

She invites him to breakfast and they sit around the table, and coffee is served. There’s more bread and more soup from yesterday it seems – the clock hanging above the door tells him it’s past ten in the morning – but he couldn’t be bothered with eating leftovers. Fuck it, he’ll eat _all_ the vegetables he could after this.

Frosty tells him that they’re leaving in an hour in the midst of Claire’s chatter – how she talks about her chocobo, that her dad used to be a soldier (the man shushes her at this, and she looks guilty for a moment) but now he’s raising livestock, curious about Noctis’ background – and when the man gets up and puts on his cloak, Noctis follows suit. When he’s about to head into the bathroom to change, the man grunts ‘keep it’, tossing him a worn cloak, and he swallows the argument down his throat at the still-icy gaze. Claire just smiles throughout the entire thing, as if used to it.

When they head out, Noctis stands to the side of the balcony, looking around and unable to find the cloak he had yesterday, holding his clothes close to his chest. The ring is still in his pocket and he feels it against his skin, another chance locked away. Frosty is putting boxes on to the back of the truck while Claire was with her chocobo, the bird tutting softly as she patted its neck. He walks over to her, smiling at the bright sun in the sky. It was a clear day, a rarity in the winter, but maybe it was the sign – that spring was coming, one more. No more nights of darkness. No more shadows creeping at the edges of the light, feral eyes looking in. No more sacrifices.

The bird clucks at him, wings fluttering a bit, and he reaches out to pat the bird. Hope, huh. Sometimes—

Sometimes things are just goddamn mysterious.

“Thanks, buddy.” He says, a corner of his lip rising as the bird cocks its head and slowly taps his beak against his temple. The light catches on Claire’s hair and she’s glowing.

Frosty calls them over and he follows the girl, smiling a bit as she does a little hop up to the truck. He looks at the back of it and sees crates and pelts over them – deliveries, probably. His insides squirm once more as Claire turns to him, eyes twinkling, as she gets in behind the passenger’s seat. He makes to follow her but Frosty points to the passenger seat and he shifts away, riding shotgun. Funny, when he gets in, there’s no sign of the shotgun, just more seat warmers and pelts and there’s a sort of toy taped to the dashboard.

He closes the door after him and turns to Frosty, who’s clambering up his seat. He also places a huge fucking _machete_ next to him, set against the stick shift.

He sort of gets it. Shotguns were horrible in enclosed spaces. Knives were more useful.

Speaking of—

“Um.” He starts, suddenly awkward as Frosty turns to him with a deadpan _what now?_ look. “I had. Um. A sword. I think. Before.”

The look on Frosty’s face couldn’t be anything else but lack of interest, no recognition whatsoever in them. He turns a bit slightly to the back and Noctis catches Claire’s eye.

She shook her head, lips turning downwards a bit. He nods, turns back and sighs. It’s fine. He can make it. He’s gone on less. Sure, he had the magic of the ring of Lucii then but he’ll find something. The Crownsguard – and Gladio, especially – trained him hard. He was survivor. He’ll make do with anything.

Point is, he survived. Everything else is just details.

∞

The sceneries that run past them is a blur of snow and earth, the breeze shifting against the windows, the occasional drift of snow lapping at the glass in dregs of white.

Claire chats from time to time, pointing this and that and he answers, genuinely interested. Frosty keeps his eyes on the wheel, silent as ever. The snow lessens the longer they drive, the sun shifting to the afternoon, and there are more trees now, greener than the one before and the one before that, and there are more animals, docile and in groups, shifting along the wide plains.

And Noctis finds himself talking – talking about Gladio and Ignis and Prompto, finds himself talking about his friends, about Prompto’s excitement for chocobos, how Ignis knows more languages than he possibly could ever use and that Gladio could finish two paperback novels in one sitting if he put his mind to it. He talks about how he misses them – how he wasn’t able to say goodbye properly – and maybe it’s because Claire reminds him too much of Luna, how she manages to bring out the truth and the best out of him and he doesn’t find it surprising that the _best_ of him was his three friends.

And if Claire notices that the more he talks about his friends – how he’s hurtling home, snow behind him and the sun in his face – the more he uses _when_ instead of _if,_ she doesn’t say anything.

Sometime, in between the hurried piss breaks and the bag of nuts passed around, Claire falls asleep, hand tucked under her chin, face pressed against the seat, hair across her face. Noctis turns to look at her, the downwards turn of her lashes, and he smiles. He turns back to face the front, glancing once at Frosty.

“She’s sweet.” He says, breaking the silence. “Really smart and mature for her age. I know I wasn’t like that when I was young and stupid.”

Well, if he does the math, he’s still young. And he’s still stupid.

Point still stands.

“The best.” Frosty says, still looking forward, grip on the wheel still tight as ever. Maybe the meaning of relaxing had long ago disappeared. Maybe all that matters to him now was keeping his daughter safe.

Noctis bites his lip. “She says her mom died?”

There’s silence – he could even hear the sound of his breathing, the hum of the truck engine, the indescribable _rush_ of a moving vehicle—

A tiny, almost unnoticeable nod.

He knows it’s stepping beyond lines not open to him, and he usually never broaches things like this with others, but he wants to know. There’s a need to know. There’s a need to put more than a name to the faces of two strangers that had saved his life. He wants to know – because they’re not just fathers and daughters to him. They were people, _good_ people – people he believed in. It was people like them that had Noctis going. People like them – Frosty and Claire and Luna – and if he can’t save Luna, then maybe, he can do more for these two.

“How?” He asks, sibilant and silent.

The grip on the wheel tightens and maybe—

He could just be imagining—

Maybe it’s not _grief_ in those eyes right—

“Childbirth. Eight years ago.”

Oh. _Oh._ And he gets it—

The need to protect his daughter, the ferocity in those eyes, the slips of softness he spies when Frosty doesn’t think he’s looking, the way his daughter clings to him—

He gets it.

The silence grows between them, and maybe Noctis is imagining the sorrow in the air, the way that frozen gaze _thaws_ just for a moment – a sliver of weakness that his daughter couldn’t see – and Noctis can’t stop asking himself why, why is it always the good people – the best people – that have it rough, that seem to pick the short end of the stick, that can’t seem to catch a break.

When the sky slowly starts to turn a pale yellow, the snow now merely a thin sheet on the ground, and the chirping of the birds distinct even through the glass, Claire wakes just a moment before structures appear in the distance. They’re small, minute and almost invisible, but they grow larger – and behind them, the mountains rise closer and they’re not capped and blanketed in white but in _green_ and the structures turn into buildings – low and singular, wood and stone and there – a station, then.

The truck shifts a bit on the coarse road, but Noctis doesn’t care, eyes on the station – on that one sign of hope – that next chance—

And—

Maybe he doesn’t have to fight anymore.

Maybe he doesn’t have to give and give and sacrifice—

Maybe it’s just a matter of taking the steps up and finally getting home—

The truck slides to a stop outside the station, and Noctis sees that it’s less of a _people_ station and more of a delivery station. There are people about, dressed in rough outdoor wear, in thick coats, carrying boxes – produce and maybe meat and pelts like Frosty. Some people recognized the reticent blond man, raising hands to greet him and his daughter, and Noctis watches from the inside of the truck as those same men look at him in curiosity.

Frosty starts taking the boxes out, putting them down on the ground and Noctis steps out of the truck, leaving his clothes in the seat and the door unclosed as he rounds towards the back, gripping the remaining crates. He doesn’t look at Frosty, just helps the man put the boxes down, notices Claire slowly making her way out of her seat and watching them.

With almost all of the crates down, Noctis stands to the sides, rubbing at his arms as he takes in the small train – maybe a tram — parked at the end. A few more men show up to grab the crates, setting them on their trolleys, and Claire and Noctis stand to the side, away from the area. Frosty walks up to the steps of the nearest building – a short kiosk of sorts, the wooden panels old and tacked with posters and signages. He talks to someone beyond the glass window, too far for Noctis to say anything – there’s some loud chattering and it echoes from the glass. Another man approaches to talk to Frosty, an older man – hair grey and skin full of pock marks — and, funny, the guy reminds Noctis of the mechanic Cid for a bit. He wonders how he is, if he’s still alive – pretty sure he still is, codger doesn’t look like he’s ready to throw in the towel in the next few _centuries_ — and if Cindy’s still around Hammerhead, and if Prompto’s still trying in vain to woo her—

Hmm, wonder how Ignis feels about that. Can’t imagine the constantly-groomed advisor to do anything but roll his eyes and shake his head at Prompto’s bumbling.

Noctis is drawn out of his thoughts as Frosty and Cid the Second approaches, the older man looking him up and down. The look is not judgmental – just curious – and he nods at Frosty before stepping away, winking at Claire. She giggles and steps closer to her dad, Frosty’s hand finding purchase on her shoulders.

He looks up at the standoffish man and – well, knowing what happened, knowing the sacrifice it took — he’s not afraid to look at the other in the eye.

“You’re gonna find your friends, right?” Claire asks, and he looks down. She’s smiling – there’s a trace of sadness in her smile – but the rest is happy. For him.

He kneels until he’s face to face with her, looking into her intelligent eyes – at the maturity in them and it’s Luna all over again. “Yeah. I promise you I’ll find my friends.”

She smiles, nodding. “That’s good. Nobody should be alone.”

He grins at her, and maybe he looks weird with his scraggly beard and the gauntness of his face, but he does. The world needed more honest smiles. “You’re a good person, Claire. I’m not backing down on my promise, you know that?”

And—

The smile on her face grows smaller—

The lightness of her hair just grows a bit paler—

Her eyes just turn a shade greyer—

And she nods—

And—

“I know you won’t.”

The breath he sucks in – a gasp – is ragged, his chest painful, and he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even _think_ about opening his arms and holding her close, feels her arms around his neck. His nose is against her hair, the scent of snow and spring on her skin and he’s eight years old again promising Luna he wouldn’t let her down—

He doesn’t care that his eyes are glass, probably, as he pulls away and watches as Claire smiles one last time before making her way back to the truck. He stays there, for a moment, just on the ground, letting the emotion run through his veins, and he stands.

Frosty is looking at him – eyes fierce and burning with an emotion – but it’s not rage, it’s not anger. It’s – well, whatever it is – it has the man not breaking eye contact with him until he looks away, the emotion disappearing

Frosty grunts. “Lex’s willing to take ya to ‘tissia. It’s not gonna be an easy ride, tram’s not made for people. You’ll be there by tomorrow, I reckon.”

He blinks, eyes suddenly itchy. “I—I don’t know what to say. I can’t.” Fuck, he’s never good at this. Will never be good at this. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to. Doesn’t mean he’s not itching to express his gratitude because the idea – that one day, and the day after and the day after – he’ll finally see Prompto and Ignis and, fuck, Gladio and—

Damn it, his throat is choking up. “I can’t thank you enough. I can’t-I don’t know what-“

Frosty suddenly looks awkward, as if he doesn’t know how to react, lips doing some weird dance as he raises a hand to scratch at his head under his beanie. He looks away, to the station, the truck – anywhere but at Noctis – and—

“Look, kid,” Frosty says, his voice rough, following a sigh. “I don’t know ya. Couldn’t give a shit about ya. But Claire’s smart. And more than that, she’s good. She’s _special_ , okay. She can—“

“Serah and I had her in Lestallum, during the dark times. The world was fucking crazy and there was no sunlight but I had my wife and our unborn kid. And then my wife dies during labor and it was the fucking end of the world for me. Couldn’t even think what to do, she was all I had and—“

Frosty pauses, swallows and clears his throat, looking at the sky. “And Claire was born, and she was special.”

And Noctis nods, because he gets it. He really does. People like Claire don’t come up all the time.

People like her and Luna, they make the world a better place, make the sun shine a bit brighter.

They can sometimes save the fucking world if need be—

“And you know how special she was?”

He shakes his head at the other. The smile on the man’s face is heartbreakingly tender.

“When she was born, the light fucking came back. The moment that little baby cried, my own daughter, the sun fucking came up. Ten long dark years and she brought the sun back to me.”

Because people like them inspire people like Noctis to be better than they actually are.

“She can see the _good_ in people. She and her mother’s like that. Serah always brought out the good in people, and Claire – she knows it when she sees something good. And she sees something good in ya.”

He swallows, voice tight and Noctis sees the open vulnerability in the other’s eyes. He doesn’t bother correcting the man, doesn’t tell him it was all prophecy and sacrifice – because, what if it wasn’t? What if it was just luck? What if things weren’t just meant to fall into places the way they were meant to be? Maybe, sometimes, it’s all just a big coincidence. “She says that you’re a good guy, and I don’t know ya, but I believe her. She’s never been wrong.”

Noctis doesn’t know what to say, heart crashing against his chest, as the man puts his hand into his pocket and pulls out a bunch of paper – gil – and pushes it against his chest. He raises a hand to keep them from falling. “Here, that’s enough to get you a meal and a ticket on the ferry back to Leide. You’re Lucian, right? That’s where you’re heading? Good.”

He stammers, refuses, because this was _more_ than enough, a hundred times over, and he can’t, he can’t repay this, this _kindness_ —

But Frosty continues, ignoring him.

“Claire believes in ya. She thinks you were meant to come into our lives. I don’t know anything about that but I believe her. She’s _never_ been wrong. So, you fucking man up. You don’t give up. You stand tall and find those friends of yours and if they’re as fucking _perfect_ as you say they are, then you oughta know that they probably need you, too.”

And Noctis doesn’t know—

How can he even come close to paying all this back—

Not just the money, or the clothes or the food—

But the faith—

The hope, the _possibility,_ that one day soon – one more moment – he could be home, he could finally see those amber eyes and—

And he doesn’t have anything on him, except the clothes, and his own blood pounding in his veins and nothing to give back to the strangers who went out on a chance to help him because they’re just _fucking_ decent and perfect and _good_ and everything Noctis doesn’t have the strength to be and the ring in his—

The ring—

He doesn’t hesitate.

He reaches into his pocket and—

“Look. I don’t know how much this will get you. I just found this in the snow and I was planning to sell it for gil when I get to, well, anywhere and—“ He pulls the ring up and hands it to Frosty, watches as his eyes fall from Noctis’ to the ring and—

His face grows pale—

The hand that is suddenly on his is tight, enough to stop the circulation in his veins. “You f-found this in the snow?”

Noctis nods, wildly, as he lets go of the ring and the man holds it like it was _everything_ to him. “Does—does that—?”

When Frosty looks up, his gaze is glassy. “This is—was. This was my wife’s. This was the ring I propo—she lost this. In a storm. Couldn’t find it.”

Maybe it’s more magic bullshit, more fate crap and maybe it’s just—

Maybe sometimes the coincidences aren’t as coincidental as they seem—

“Thank you.” The man says, and Noctis shrugs, lips up in a sad smile.

He turns his head to the tram, where the driver – Lex – was calling for the crates to be loaded up, and he swivels back to the man, unsure what to say—

“Snow.”

What.

The man clears his throat, pocketing the ring. “My name’s Snow.”

 _Huh,_ Noctis thinks. Maybe some things are just meant to happen the way they are meant to happen.

The sun is setting when the tram starts to leave, smoke rising from the exhaust up front. Noctis shifts in his seat beside the grated windows, sitting next to wooden boxes and the scent of harvested fruit strong. He turns to find the truck still there, Claire and Snow facing his direction, and he stands and leans out and raises a hand, waves it in farewell, as the sky is painted in swaths of scarlet and purple, the stars already shining in the distance.

And he doesn’t look away, still looks at their silhouettes in the setting sunlight, as they grow smaller and smaller, the ice-capped mountains and the snowy blanket grow even more distant, until he has to squint, he has to raise a hand to the top of his eyes and concentrate because—

And slowly, as the tram takes a turn to curl around the hillside, both father and daughter disappear from his sight.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, or maybe sits there – doesn’t even recognize lowering himself down until he’s back in his makeshift seat, eyes still in the distance, as the night falls on to the land and no daemons come, no more, never again—

He’s heading home, one more step, a step closer. Just a sea to swim through and he’ll be in those familiar savannahs, see those desert mountains in the distance and maybe, if he looks just hard enough, he’ll see a car being pushed forward by three people and all the questions, the what-ifs, the things he’s never had the courage to have answered, suddenly he wants to know, suddenly he wants to get the answers himself—

He’ll have the strength to ask, to say, to whisper those few words and maybe he’ll finally hear those few words back, spoken over the turnings of a few pages, the warm golden gaze above and that’s one more day, one coming day, another dawn—

He doesn’t know when he falls asleep, temple against the steel grate, the occasional tumble of the tram shaking the crates, but he doesn’t wake—

Not until he feels the warmth on his skin and the hint of something that smells a bit sweet, poignant and _familiar_ , hits his nostrils—

Not until he actually opens his eyes and the light blinds him for a moment. He groans, brings a hand up to his face to shield it from the sun, and when he slowly moves it away, doesn’t even take note of the wetness of his cheeks or the imprint of the grate against his temple, when he stands back up and looks out—

When he sees endless fields of blue beyond the tram tracks, when the wind blows and the flowers dance like faeries, when the castles in the sky echo of a time forgotten—

And he doesn’t recognize it when the blue petals of the sylleblossoms run against his cheek, doesn’t recognize the words he’s saying as—

_(Thank you, Luna. I’m sorry.)_

He looks to the distance, to the ancient castles set in their rest, and the endless, _infinite_ blue of the sylleblossom fields, to the fey tales of the ancient Tenebraean to the memory of Eos’ last Oracle—

When a breeze picks up, and the sylleblossom shake and the petals fly into the air and he squints, because the wind is in his face, and the petals they fly—

When they whisper of home and chance and hope and love and faith—

It finally, _finally_ feels like forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I particularly loved writing this chapter because I got to explore Noctis' feelings for Luna. I've always found it intriguing how, in the base game, every time Noctis remembers all the moments he had with Luna, it was always her younger self. Obviously because they haven't seen each other in years, but I also think it links with Luna's avant-garde death scene in the game, how he views her as her younger self (innocence, hope, chances) and when she turns to her older self, he realizes what it means (sacrifice).
> 
> Basically this chapter is:  
> \- Does Noctis love Luna? Yes.  
> \- Does he love her platonically or romantically? Maybe both.  
> \- Does it mean he loves Gladio any less? No.  
> \- Does Noctis have enough love in his heart for more than 1 person? Goddamn duh.
> 
>  
> 
> (this may also double-up as a sorta fix-it for Snow and Serah from the XIII trilogy lmao - also cameo of Claire 'Lightning' Farron and little Hope)
> 
> Please scream with me about this ship on [Tumblr. ](http://www.rose-tinted-bones.tumblr.com)


	4. subsumed in all of your gravity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some things change, and some stay the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day? :)
> 
> So, funny little thing, I posted yesterday on tumblr that, while writing this chapter, I sort of, well, overlooked this little (read: gigantic) thing in terms of the topography and geography of Eos since I wanted this fic to be a sorta-realistic portrayal of a journey lmao it's just funny because I plotted this story with the map in front of me and then I missed one big, _watery_ part of it lmao
> 
> I like to believe that my method of fixing such an overlook tied in well with the world building lmao so yeah just read and you'll pretty much get to it in the middle of the entire thing hahahaha
> 
> title taken from 'holding onto gravity' by Nell.

 

> **chapter IV:** subsumed in all of your gravity

* * *

 

 

 

 

The tram tracks didn’t swing by Tenebrae. It was understandable, Noctis thinks. He didn’t expect for it to stop there, not when it was making for Altissia. Still, a part of him wanted to visit Luna’s home – the place he had spent so long in recuperation, clinging to his wheelchair for support. That could wait, though. He had time, now. Someday, soon. Hopefully. Surely. _Definitely._

He’d chalk it up to the tram’s momentum, to that constant rushing in his blood as the tracks take him forward and forward, onwards, home, and he’d chalk it all up to anything but the fact that he’s _hopeful._

The fields of sylleblossom – endless and poignant, the tales of old Tenebrae, of man and myth, bustling in the spaces between their petals – disappear over the horizon, the ancient castles hidden by the clouds and the sky and Noctis doesn’t say goodbye, doesn’t say farewell, merely gives a smile to the wind and turns his back, onwards, to the future.

∞

Noctis thinks that, in the months of danger that he’s lived through since the fall of Insomnia, he’s developed an inkling that the world was really out to get him. Not counting the damned prophecy and all the bullette-shit that came with it, there had been far too many opportunities for him to think that anything else in his life could be considered relatively normal at this point. With the way his luck was going, he hadn’t been expecting a smooth ride on the way to wherever it was for him to get to Altissia. He’s not sure what the current lay of the world is right now, but from what he’s last remembered, the only route towards Lucis was through Altissia. Since the war had begun, the borders had been closed and the Crown City had been walled off. Anyone wanting to get to Tenebrae or to the Niflheim-controlled lands had to pass by Altissia.

He hasn’t been there since whenever, since Luna and the Tidemother. The memory still stings, but he’s learned to keep on breathing. Once the ball was rolling, there was no stopping. Just had to make it until the end of the line.

The ride is, more or less, uneventful. From Tenebrae, through the peaks of the Ulwaat and past the sandy dunes of Pagla. The tram cut through most of the forest, covering the slope of the mountain range that hid Tenebrae in its size, the tree branches snapping against the roof of the tram, a staccato on the metal that had Noctis turning to the window from time to time. Simply because there was _nothing_ happening – no sudden beast attack, no Imperial soldiers falling from the skies to shoot at him, no random coeurl lashing out – he had to settle with trying to get a few pockets of sleep on the journey.

His seat wasn’t comfortable – a rickety, foldable chair that seemed to be bolted to the flooring of the tram – and the inside of the car was filled with crates of produce. He’s, more or less, grown very familiar with the smell of apples and pears, to be quite honest. Not something he had ever expected, but there was that. The driver – Lex – didn’t really step out of his compartment, there was no other driver to take his place, and he barely used the intercom to talk to him. All in all, it was a quiet journey. Nothing remarkable whatsoever than—

Well.

The pounding of his heart, anyway.

It’s not that he’s scared. Well, not really. Okay, so he’s lying. To himself.

He’s actually terrified – but there’s no definite target for his fear. He doesn’t know what he’s afraid of – or maybe he does: maybe he’s afraid of going home and finding that there is no home for him to get to; maybe he’s afraid of searching for his friends and no matter how many cracks and crevices he peeks into, he finds no trace of them whatsoever; maybe he’s afraid that he _does_ find them and realize that, no, they’ve moved on – they’ve adjusted to his absence now and—

There’s no place in the world for him anymore.

The thought is there. It’s always there. Lately, it’s been at the back of his mind – pushed to the edges of his consciousness by all the things that have been happening – but now that he’s not doing _anything,_ now that he has so much time on his hand to just think, the thought is jumping about like a goddamn spiracorn.

There was just so much of what he’s missed. Eight years. Eight long years since he had ‘died’. If Snow had been correct in his count – if Claire had been born the day the sun came up – then that would be eight years for the world to rebuild.

Thing is — disaster can do things to people, change them. He only had that snippet in between Hammerhead and Insomnia to even touch the surface of the distances that had grown between him and the rest. He had been slumbering for a decade inside the Crystal, time had stopped for him. When he had awakened, he found everything had changed without him. The sacrifice of whatever was left of the Kingsglaive retinue, under the judging eyes of the Astrals, had spoken of so _much,_ of what the world had to do to keep going. For him to keep going.

When he had landed on what was left of the Galdin Quay, infested with so many daemons, and it took Talcott arriving out of the blue for him to find his way back, to wherever he had to go, he hadn’t been able to understand, to believe that things could have changed this much. To see that young boy’s face, always red when Noctis talked to him, grown and mature – looking so much like Jared – and he still had his little cactuar collection. Thinking about it now brings a smile to his face. Jeez, he misses the kid.

The smile fades as he turns to face the windows, the Sathersea’s azure waters glimmering under the sunlight. He couldn’t really appreciate the last time he had seen this, in the days and weeks following Luna’s death. It had been a hopeless time for him – he had tried so _hard_ and to see her one last time, as Leviathan roared and raged, a tsunami forming at the peripheries of his vision. She had been there, over him, her hands on her trident and she was smiling – _always_ smiling at him and—

When he woke up, she had died.

Surprisingly, the tears do not come. Surprisingly, there is no regret clawing at his chest. Surprisingly, there’s only the open road, facing an ocean the same color as her eyes. Surprisingly, there’s only anticipation for the future, to the distance.

Like she once said, all he had to do was look forward.

It took him so long to do that, to see past the blood pooling in his hands, over the crimson and scarlet against her skin, the twin tan marks seared into Ignis’ skin, to finally gain the courage to put the ring on and feel it _burn_ itself into his skin, merging with his soul. He wasn’t going to deny it – he had been afraid, not wanting to make the choice. He saw what his father had become, saw as each day took one more second, one more hour from him until all that was left of the indomitable man in his childhood was the warm eyes beneath the silver hair and that horned crown. He didn’t want to be like that – didn’t want to end like that—

But life rarely let people _choose_ how they start.

Gladio had been angry – understandably so, in retrospect – at him for his reticence, for being afraid to stand and take the reins of his responsibilities, his birthright. Noctis had held his tongue, then, bitter and angry and shutting himself away from them. It wasn’t like he _didn’t_ understand. He knew it then, viscerally, knew each sacrifice he had to make to be King. He knew that there was no going about it and that no matter how many times he cried, he screamed and he ran, the future was already set the moment he made his first sound, the moment the ugly baby cried. He’s seen it – in each gaze his father thought Noctis didn’t see, didn’t _note_ but was present, was there and would never leave the recesses of his mind – and he knows that his father never wanted what was in store for him. Noctis hadn’t known what it was then, but he knew that as each day passes, the pain in his father’s eyes grew stronger until it was difficult – hard and heavy – for him to look at his father in the eye and not ask _why? Why? What is it? What are you not telling me? Don’t you trust me? Why are you smiling? I can see it, Dad. I can_ see _you. You look like you want to cry, like you want to hug me close and_ never _let me go but you are – you’re letting me go, you’re making me_ go _. What If I never wanted to go? What if I never wanted to leave? What if all I wanted was just to stay by your side? Wasn’t I enough? I could have helped you. I don’t know what I could have done but I could have done_ something. _I could have done anything. Wasn’t I enough?_

The waters of the Sathersea are calm, the waves rising to crash against the shores. The horizon was infinite – endless – and he stood closer, felt the breeze against his skin, the scent of the open waters rushing against him. In the distance, even at the speed of the tram, he could hear the cries of the seabirds, sees them from afar – like little dots against the unending blue of the sky – flight and freefall, riding the currents of the wind, taking them wherever the world took them. He leans his head against the steel grate of the window frame.

He knew. He knew why. He hadn’t known at the start, had been angry and miserable and bitter at his father’s silence, and it took him a decade to learn, but he learned. He understood.

His father had once spoken to him about destiny. Once. Almost a long time ago, back when he was nine. It wasn’t a memory that stands out to him that often – just in the few moments he actually chose to think about it. It was back then, after the attack on Tenebrae, a few months after the imperial sack of the Fenestala Manor and Queen Sylva’s death. He had been in his father’s study, standing by the open balcony and watched the rain fall on Insomnia, the nightsky painted in the drips and tumult of the storm. His father had walked up to him, placed a hand on his shoulder.

 _Sometimes_ , his father said, voice quiet and warm, and Noctis remembers pressing his face against his waist, the buckle pressing against his cheek, the metal cold. _We can only do so much. Sometimes, things are just meant to happen the way they are meant to happen. We can ask question them, be angry and deny them, do anything we can to avoid them from happening but, no matter what we do, everything always come full circle, Noct. You can build a roof over your head and it will not stop the rain from falling. You could close your eyes to the sun but it will not stop rising. You can forget how to cry but smiling will not change the way it hurts. Sometimes, the bad will always happen. Sometimes, all we can do is accept._

“And do nothing?” He asked, mirroring the same question when he was nine. If he squints, he could see the shieldshears on the sand.

_The hardest thing to do, my son, is to do nothing._

He thought his father meant letting things happen, let all the shit that was piling up to roll over and explode. It took him time to realize that _maybe_ that’s not what his father meant. _Maybe_ what his father meant was to let the part play for itself, and everything will follow. _Maybe_ rebuilding the world was never meant to be Noctis’ job. _Maybe_ all he needed to was to make sure there was still a world left to rebuild by the time the smoke clears. _Maybe_ everything else that follows is up to everyone _else,_ now.

To the people that remained after. To the people that woke up and finally saw the light peering, rising, like a goddamn sight, over the horizon, behind the spires of the Ravatogh. To people like Talcott and Iris and everyone who had long said goodbye to the fields under the sun, to the blue of the water against Cape Caem, to those born in darkness, only to awaken to light. To people like Claire, who brought back hope to the world. To the people that stood as once, rebuilding the world after the last Lucian King finally bid goodnight.

To the people he ordered, no, _asked_ to walk tall, to rebuild, to live and move on. Retainers are bound by law to die with their liege, but to _his_ retainers - he had asked them to live. For him. In his memory and legacy.

And because -

Goddamn it.

He did everything, sacrificed everything. For _them._

So that they’ll have a place to call home once more, and should that place be gone, then they’ll have the will and the strength to move forward and make an even better one.

Funny how just about every person he’s met up fits into that profile – they stick their neck out doing their absolute best to make sure he’s on the way home.

He settles in and slouches on the seat, the folded coat under him in some sad attempt to soften the seat. That was fine, by him.

In the meantime, he also doesn’t fail to realize that this might be another _good_ time for a nap. It still never fails to blow his goddamn mind – surprise his very soul – how weirdly uneventful and boring and _quiet_ the aftermath always is. You run and crawl and stagger and fight like hell for your fucking life — sword and torch, skin and bones and blood and the pure fucking _hope_ that burns with the intensity that could scald and upturn you from the inside out — claw and grit your way out of the darkest, coldest pits of snow and misery and _nothing_ and come out battered, beaten, half- _dying_ again but still breathing, heart still beating, still living and—

There’s nothing to do but wait.

Nothing to do but count the seconds that turn into minutes, count the _mini_ seconds that turn into actual seconds and—

Count the breaths you’re taking because each count is higher than the last one and the one before that and – one day, soon – when he’s home, when he’s waking up to the scene of Prompto playing video games on the sofa and Ignis is on his desk, half-hidden by the piles of paperwork that never seem to run out and Gladio is by his side, a perpetual book in his hand and the other is tracing shapes down Noctis’ back, one day soon he’ll learn to stop wondering when the count runs out and he’ll learn that he’s allowed to keep breathing.

Still, that doesn’t change how the anticlimax, the ball rolling down the slope always makes Noctis itch to, dunno, tear his own hair out just for something to _do._ Sure, not being shot at and not dying in the snow is all good and fucking well and he’ll never take anything like peace for granted ever-fucking-again; safety is _beautiful_ , but coming off of the high is one thing. Plunging off from the zeitgeist down to the abyss of idleness, nonaction—usually involving some unholy quantity of hours and minutes spent with his ass numb on a truck or a train—is in a really, _really_ different category and, personally, it’s one he would very much like to never do ever again. Ever.

To put it simply, Noctis is horrible with boredom—boredom with videogames, with parties, with things that he’s forced to do because, yes, even the Crown Prince is required to be at the christening of the High Councilor’s sister’s godfather’s cousins’ baby brother, with _any_ boredom. Doesn’t really take a genius to figure that one out; everyone who’s ever known him could point that out even in their sleep. At times like this, he’d just lay his head against the side of the Regalia and he’d pass out, the sun warm and soft on his face as they pass through the overlapping arches of the Disc of Cauthess. But he doesn’t really feel like sleeping, doesn’t really feel like returning to those occasions where he drowns in his dreams.

In the moments that he’s bored and awake, the others would have something for him to take his attention away from the ever growing restlessness that pools in him. Funny, everyone pretty much guesses he’s lazy and, well, yeah, that much is true – but he’s not lethargic, he’s not comfortable with doing _nothing_ . Ignis would usually talk to him about this and that, ask for his opinion on whatever meal he’s planning to prepare and Noctis would indulge him, because the man was amazing, and his culinary skills were even more amazing and, he’ll never tell _anyone_ this, he just loves to listen to Ignis’ accent as the older man speaks. Prompto was energetic, and when Noctis was with him, he was pretty much assured that he’ll never be _bored._ He was the little spitfire of the group, the little ball of energy. Gladio—

(Past – or maybe permanent – protector and Shield; permanent owner of Noctis’ soul and heart; and…what? Future well of untapped potential?

There’s a ‘tap that’ joke in there, somewhere, maybe. Which Noctis may or may not want to actually sink to. Or follow through with.

Thing was – the problem is that once you start joking about it, once you believe it’s safe enough to ridicule, to satirize and laugh about it—you’ve acknowledged it as real and it’s impossible to run from it anymore. Once there’s enough of a possibility to joke about, then there’s enough to _act_ on and—)

Gladio was rough when he needs to be, and he never relented, never gave an inch when it comes to Noctis’ training. He could hit as hard as Cor, even harder, and he’s not afraid to be brutally honest with Noctis if he needs to, but on those rare times where there’s no training, no need to sweat over his sword on an ancient haven, when it’s a long-ass road from Hammerhead to Lestallum, in the quiet afternoons of his childhood, Noctis doesn’t have to do anything but listen—

Listen to his Shield’s soft words, the treble of his voice low and snug, surprisingly eloquent lips forming around the words – to the Gothic romances that Gladio denies he loves – and Noctis will let that excuse slide through because if anyone else asks, asks why he’s alright with sitting there, head against the rest, eyes closed as stories of knights and princesses and the love affairs of bard-kings and courtesans dance around his ears, if anyone asks why he does so, he’ll always deny that it’s because he loves to listen to Gladio reading those stories to him. For him.

And he knows – now, maybe a bit too late, but who knows? It could not be that late. Maybe this was the time for it, after everything – knows that Gladio does it for him. He’s never asked, never gave any indication that he wanted his Shield to read to him. That was not the responsibility of a Shield – of a King’s most loyal sword-sworn, the man fated to die by his King – and that was certainly not something a twenty-year old King would ever ask of his Shield. But maybe Gladio does it because he _wants_ to. Maybe Gladio does it not because it was one more duty, one more obligation, one more choice ripped from him the moment he was born, promised at birth—

Maybe when he looks at Noctis, it’s less of _I have to_ and more of an _I want to._

That on those afternoons – and isn’t it funny? That time between one and five, when the sunlight seeping through the windows is just tad bit golden, when the wind is just a tad bit warmer, when the song of the birds are a tad bit quieter, that time moves just a tad bit slower, it feels like forever – where it’s just the two of them, and Noctis doesn’t have to say anything, just rests his head against the pillow, eyes barely open as Gladio’s words paint and scissor around the walls and up his skin, and he doesn’t realize that maybe he’s trembling, he’s shuddering, almost as if Gladio’s lips where whispering those same words, against the lobe of his ear, the tickle of his beard against his skin, and maybe the warmth around him was the warmth of his Shield over him, always protecting, always towering, heart beating half a step after his own.

The grip he has on his jeans tightens.

He wants that. He wants those afternoons back. He wants those rare, almost stolen moments back. He wants to wake to those afternoons and to hear Gladio, hear him, see that small smile as he notices that his little errant prince is finally awake, he wants those _back._

And—

He wants more than that, now. He wants to wake up to that image, to smile and not say anything, doesn’t have to, and Gladio won’t have to ask, he’ll know with a look because it’s Noctis – it’s his prince and King – and wasn’t that true? _I’ll always know you._ He wants those stories whispered to him, the touch of this lips against his ear, his Shield’s arm around his center and over his heart, feel his own heart beating against that hand. He wants to turn in place, to have the chance, the right, the _freedom_ to feel Gladio’s own heart beat under his hand, tracing the lines of ink on gold skin, for his thumb to graze that lip, reach up to his stupidly _long_ hair and how—how Noctis loves it, knows as deep as the bones under his skin runs that Gladio grew it out because Noctis once said so, said that it’ll look good on him, loves the way it blows in the wind and gets into Gladio’s own mouth when the wind shifts, how the man scowls and spits it back out and those eyes look to Noctis as he laughs and—

He wants to feel those scars on his face, and on his chest, the marks of his liegeman’s fealty, of _I pledge my life, my heart, my soul and my honor_ and the word _heart_ echoes in Noctis’ head and he wants—

He wants to know what keeps the other standing, what keeps the other going, what he sees when he looks at Noctis because the way he _does,_ the way those amber eyes glimmer with anger and pain and guilt on that trainride to Tenebrae – when he shouts those words, calls Noctis weak and cowardly and how he looks like he’ll do _anything_ to take them back but he doesn’t know the words to say so, doesn’t know if he _could_ take them back, doesn’t know if he _should_ take them back but he wants to because it hurt Noctis and he only hurts Noctis in training, to make him stronger but never outside that, never when he’s at his weakest, not when his late King commanded him to stand by his Noctis – the way those whiskey-colored eyes seem to know every sinew of his existence, knows him inside-out from the moment they first met, when Noctis was just two years old and terrified of the tall boy in front of him and how – in that time when Gladio did not so much as look at Noctis like he was just another burden, another _disappointment_ – how does he keep looking at Noctis like that?

Like he’s something worth protecting, worth keeping, worth _loving._

And—

Noctis blinks the saltiness of the sea away from his eyes, or so he says.

He’s not afraid to want to _know_ now. And if—

If by some miracle—

Some small chance—

Some tiny, infinitesimal sliver of hope that there’s still something—

That those amber eyes still have that same glow—

Still looks at him with so much, much _something_ —

Then—

He’ll have his answer – and the rest of the what-ifs dwarfs to whispers and the could-have-beens can follow through, whenever they want to. He just needs to see him again, confirm that one important question and Noctis will let the wind blow him wherever it wants to, and he’ll hold tight to that warm hand, far larger than his own. He’s not letting go.

Not anymore. Free fall and flight.

His own gravity.

∞

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. When the tram shakes and his head lolls and hits the crate next to him, the surprise pulls him out of slumber. There’s that moment of just waking, when you have no idea what’s happening, what time is it and where you are – and he shakes his head, slaps his hands on his face as he rubs the sleep away. The tram seems to slowing down, if the momentum is anything to go by, and Noctis turns his head to look out – the sea was still there but there, in the distance—there was a small town, in the midst of the sandy dunes and near the bay and the high walls, familiar and prodding at the edge of Noctis’ memory.

Wait—

The tram starts to slow down just as the town grows bigger and bigger, the walls – blocky – reach high up. He has a lot of questions but he doesn’t voice them out, the driver still hadn’t left his seat and Noctis is starting to feel the needs of his _living_ body on top of all that.

The station is on the outskirts of the town – well, it was less of a town and more of a small city – the tram rolling to a stop, the grates trembling for a bit. The buildings looked new, or as new as they could in a windy, sandy area like this. The architecture – the terra cotta walls and rooftops, the bustling flowers on the windowsills and the stone paths – they’re all familiar, like he’s seen them before. He waits until the tram comes to a full stop, the wheels grating slightly on the tracks. He’s up, already picking up the coat and his old clothes, holding them to his chest. Snow’s old clothes on him were lanky but they kept him warm, and kept most of the sand away from him. He pats a hand over his shirt just to be sure, though.

There’s the sound of a door opening and he turns to find the driver _finally_ out of his car, a cap on his scraggly grey hair.

“Well,” He says, accent thick. His eyes are bloodshot, like he just woke up. Noctis doesn’t entertain the idea that maybe he fell asleep on the road. “here’s where yer getting’ off.”

Noctis frowns, confused. He’s pretty sure they’re somewhere near Cartanica. Maybe just a few miles past Fodina Caestino. Maybe. “Thought you were going to Altissia.”

The man – Lex – frowns. His brow is furrowed. “Whattya talkin’ bout, kid? We’re in Altissia.”

Noctis turns his head to the town and back to the man. “What?”

The man kicks the door open and leans against the jamb, crossing his arm. “Altissia. Here. If yer talkin’ bout Old ‘tissia, then ye better know how to swim ‘cause she’s pretty much at the bottom of the sea.”

“What do you mean by that? Bottom of the sea?” He asks, ignores the irritation crossing Lex’s face as he stands by the door. The man sighs. “Where’d Snow dug ya up, anyway? The old city sunk when the Astral died. Drowned the entire thing. Good the city was pretty much empty at that point ‘cause all of the daemons and the long night. Now, c’mon, I got some deliveries to make.”

Noctis steps down, boots hitting the sandy ground. He’ll celebrate not seeing _snow_ for the rest of his life later, his mind is still whirring with the news. “Wait, Leviathan _died_?”

The man hoists his arms on the jamb, spitting to the side. “Look, kid, if ya really wanna know then go ask around Altissia. Pretty sure there’s a museum there or somethin’. Now, scram.”

He moves out of the way as Lex starts dropping crates on the ground next to him, back to him. Noctis resists the urge to sigh as he looks around, at the tall buildings against the backdrop of a desert wall – the distant Sathersea flashing rose-gold in the afternoon sun. Clothes clutched to his chest, he walks away from the station and steps past the other trams with their deliveries. He exits the gates of the station, stepping into cobblestone steps, blinking as sand gets into his eyes.

The afternoon sun, seeming to set, paints the town in an amber shade, the wires of the telephone cables crisscrossing over the spaces between the buildings like spider webs. The town – this _Altissia,_ quite different to the idyllic sea-side city in his memories – looked a bit like Lestallum, though he can’t seem to pin the flowers and the stone carvings as anything but Altissian.

He looks at the people bustling about, at the open shops in between the calade posts. There were stalls in some of the open spaces, skewered meat and grilled fish inside glass displays next to grills still exuding smoke. The sight of the food had his stomach rumbling, and he slipped his hand inside his pocket, feeling the gil. No one seemed to pay him any more attention than a mere passing stranger – he’s grateful for that, afraid that he’d still be recognized even after all this time – and he crosses the street, pausing when a woman pushing a trolley of fruits cut in front of him.

At any other time, Noctis would have made way for the stalls before any of the others could so much as blink. He’s also contemplating _actually_ doing that but he’s very wary of his painfully limited funds given to him by Snow and he’ll have to actually budget things for once. Somewhere out there, Ignis is probably having a laugh.

He could go for the skewers, or maybe a full meal in one of those shops but he has no idea what he’s going to be riding to get to Leides and he still hasn’t forgotten what Lex said. Frowning, he remembers the last time he was in Altissia, in the aftermath of the Tidemother’s revelation. It had been chaotic, a big part of the city had been destroyed but it was still standing. He would know – he spent the next few days in denial of Luna’s death and desperately searching for her, even in the now sunken shrine where she had last stood.

To hear that it had sunk – gone, apparently – was a bit disturbing. Still, he’s not yet sure if that one was true. He wasn’t really that attached to Altissia, if only knowing that Luna was there and his supposed wedding was set to be at the cathedral in the middle of the sea-port city. Ignis and Prompto had taken to the city’s historic designs better than Noctis and Gladio had and, well, he didn’t really care where he was as long as the others were around.

He crosses to the open market, slowly walks about, looking at the shops and the stalls, looking for a kiosk – maybe one with maps? That’s usually one big flag screaming ‘tourism’ to him – and smiles and shakes his head as an elderly man in a black apron flashed a menu at him. A waiter passes in front of them carrying a plate of what seemed to be grilled trevally and, yeah, better look away before his stomach actually takes over his brain.

He exits the market and enters another street, the sun low on the horizon, and the streetlamps lighting, giving the town a quaint Altissian vibe. He’s not really sure how to describe what it looks, he’ll leave that to the more artistic Prompto and the cultured Ignis to pen down. Anyhow, the city lights are pretty and it’s almost, well, funny how merely a day ago, the most developed fixture of civilization he’s seen was a rickety old radiator warming the water of an old shower.

He has to—

When he gets home, he has to find a way, just to thank Snow and Claire. He frowns, shaking his head. He’ll leave that to later, stepping back as children in _bicycles_ roll past him. First things first – getting home.

Beyond the street, there’s a plaza with a small fountain, the water bubbling in the gold light of the city lamps. There are people around, some on the stone benches, others sitting by the fountain. There were families and couples and he smiles, can’t help it. The last time he had been to a settlement, in Hammerhead during the long night, there had been no smiles, no children playing on the stone steps.

There were only grimaces on exhausted, tired faces, wielding guns and swords and eyeing the eternal darkness beyond the lights. Only a mass pile of graves behind Cid’s shop. Only a question of _when,_ when do they get eaten by the daemons, when do they get to die without ever seeing the sun again.

He doesn’t know if he’ll ever have the strength to go through all that again, but looking at the unaware smiles on the children’s faces as their mother takes a photo of them, the sun in the background, if he has to, once more, then he might be able to.

Feeling the sand and the heat stick to his skin, he reaches up to scratch at his neck and approaches the fountain. A couple sitting by it turns to look at him – noticing his winter clothes and the scruff of his facial hair – and they don’t exactly give him a wide berth, but their chatter does go quieter and he doesn’t have it in him to be bothered. He surreptitiously moves away from them, though, to give them space and turns to the water rushing down on the pool of the fountain. There are coins nestled on the stone bank of the pool. A wishing fountain, huh.

He doesn’t know why he does it, though, hand inching inside his pocket to pull out the gil. It’s all paper bills, anyway. No coins. Maybe it’s the thought that counts? He can’t really fault it – he has been very lucky.

He blinks and looks at his reflection on the surface of the water. There’s a girl beside him.

He jumps, shouts, surprised – he didn’t see her approach.

There’s the sound of people gasping – a surprised scream – and he turns and feels the strong breeze rush through the plaza and feels the gil fly out of his hand.

 _“Shit,”_ he says, groans. “Shit. Uh—damn—“

Just his luck. Just his _fucking_ luck for this to happen. He doesn’t give himself time to complain as he drops to his knees, clothes in a pile on the ground, hands grabbing at the fallen gil. He keeps a count of the money in his head – he can’t lose it, it’s all he’s got and he _needs_ it to go home—

The couple from before approach him and the man hands him two sheets that had fallen farther and he thanks them profusely, adding it to the tally. He looks about, over the fountain to see if it’s fallen and if it had then he’s drying _that_ one out and counts only up to four-hundred when there should have been five—

There’s a flapping sound and he turns to see the girl from before, the one standing next to him, and she’s smiling. There’s something mischievous in her smile – tightlipped, secretive – her dark hair covering her face. The remaining one-hundred is in her fist, fluttering in the wind.

He slowly rises to a stand, puts a smile on his face. “Hey, thanks for grabbing that one.”

Walking up to her, he holds his hand out, the relief rushing through him cut short as she tucked her hand behind her and shook her head, dark eyes glinting from under the fringe.

His brows furrow but he keeps the smile on his face, ignoring the irritation. “That’s mine, yeah? Really need it, you know. Can’t get home without it. Can you please give it back?”

He hopes the use of ‘please’ gets through her – on top of the hope that maybe her mother or father actually took some time to instill the wonderful importance of those words and how it was _rude_ to take other people’s money, especially when those people are supposed to be dead but are magically brought back to life and desperate to find their own family. He also hopes that his growing irritation isn’t showing on his face. The last thing he needs is for a little girl to start screaming at him and have the nearest guard put him in handcuffs.

The girl doesn’t lose her smile and shakes her head once more.

 _Damn it,_ he thinks. _Why can’t you just give it back to me?_

“Come on, I need that. That’s mine. Stealing’s wrong, you know. Didn’t your mommy teach you that?” He says, injecting a laugh, pretending as if it wasn’t his lifeline clutched in small fingers. Maybe if he acted that he didn’t really _care_ about the money that much, she might find his passiveness boring and give it back? _What_ is it about children holding his future and his life in their hands? At least Claire was kind about it.

She raises her head, looks at him in the eye – closes them for a bit, smile turning low – before she turns.

And _runs_.

He can’t—

He stands there for a second, shocked. The girl runs into one of the smaller alleys and turns back to him, raising the money and waving it, still smiling. Then, he’s _pissed._ “Why you little—“

Doesn’t even care about his clothes still in a pile, Noctis growls as he runs after the girl, ignoring the ache of his stomach and the sweat stuck to his skin or what kind of image he’s presenting when a grown man that looks like he needs a week inside a bathroom is running after a little girl in a white sundress. He doesn’t really want to know the answer to that, but he’s also pretty sure it involves prison cell bars and a permanent record on his criminal history.

He jumps in between a couple, calls out an apology over his shoulder as he turns to the alley, finds the girl gone.

“Damn it. _Fuck._ ” The words echo against the dark and dirty walls, the garbage cans littering the corners, piles of trash on the ground. He looks to the right and sees her looking at him from another intersection, cocking her head and _smiling. “Get back here!”_

He takes off after her, just as she turns to the side. He groans to himself, escaping the alley and into a boulevard facing the open sea. He’d usually find time to appreciate the view but he doesn’t really give a shit about the gaping tourists when some girl fucking stole his money. He peers over the heads of the crowd, curses at the woman who thought wearing _four_ fedoras at once was a _good_ idea and spots the white sundress near a flower cart. She was tapping her finger against a sylleblossom, her face turned to him, smile present.

“Stay where you are!” He shouts, the looks of surprise and consternation on the nearby tourists’ face left ignored as he tries to politely _push_ himself through the crowds that suddenly decided standing in place was the newest popular thing and, fuck, taking photos of the sunset. He glances to the right, sees the orange sea almost like it was made of fire, and turns back to find the girl gone. _Fucking ace._

There’s a young woman – probably around his age – tending to the flowers of the cart, the floral print of her dress making him roll his eyes. The cart was small, wooden and _horribly_ painted – like the guy or girl who did the job couldn’t tell that, no, bright yellow on red did not make it look any less garish - and maybe, on some other time, he’d find that freaking charming but not when his fucking future is in the hands of a girl who probably isn’t even old enough to count from one to one thousand. “Hey, sorry, have you seen a little girl? Black hair and white dress? She was playing with the sylleblossom there.”

He tries to control his breathing, and how angry his stomach had become at the added strain of activity. The fucking flower girl took _forever_ to turn to him, brushing her brown hair over her ear, lips in a pout as her green eyes look to the sky. The red ribbon that kept her braid together swung in the wind.

He tries not to throttle her at how fucking _long_ it took her to answer. She taps a finger to her lip. “Nope. I’m sorry, I haven—“

“Hey!” They turn to see a man approach, raising a hand and the flower girl exclaims something. Noctis doesn’t really give a shit, scratching the back of his head as he turns around to look else—

“—looking for a little girl.”

“Oh, yeah?” The man said, voice boisterous and upbeat than Noctis can ever _care_. The sheen of glee in his purple eyes seemed to be a permanent fixture. Even the man’s spiky black hair looked ridiculously cheerful. “Was it your sister, man?”

He shakes his head, ignores the thought of _you are the most frustratingly useless people I have ever met in my life seriously_ as he groans again, rubbing the sweat away from his face. “She stole my damn money and I need it to get home.”

The tall man frowns and the look on his face is sympathetic. “Damn, I know how that feels. Remember, Aer?”

The flower girl nods, still smiling serenely at him. “Ah, yes. I still find that funny—“

He ignores their conversation because he’s not really in the mood for a heart-to-heart talk on what happened to Mr. Purple-Eyed Gym Rat’s money and how Mrs. Flower-Obsessed found it fucking humorous. Noctis had to admit, his life was an entire comedy routine. Bahamut is probably shaking a fit with his Chosen One’s bumbling. He decides to go west, down the crowded streets towards the ports to look when Purple-Eyed pointed to left. “Hey, is that the girl you’re talking about?”

The man points with his big hand and Noctis follows the direction to see the girl on the end of another alley – wider and brightly-lit. As if she knew she was being talked about, she turns her head to face Noctis and had the _temerity_ to wave at him. Then runs down another corner.

“Wait! Ack. _Damn_.” He runs after, ignoring the shout of ‘good luck’ from the flower girl. He jumps over a crate, almost tripping on the ledge, managing to stumble into a jog with a hand on the wooden planks of the nearby building. He ignores the feel of whatever the fuck is stuck to the walls – posters, a flyer, someone’s dried up bubble gum because they’re just that much of an asshole – and nears the corner.

“Wait, your money—“He hears a voice say, followed by a childlike _giggle,_ and he hurries because that was _his_ money—

He rounds corner, eyes on the ground and sees the bill on the cobblestone next to someone, their black boots turning to him. Dropping to his knees, he grabs the fallen gil and almost crumples it in his grip, stuffing it in his pocket with the rest of his money as he finally _relaxes_ after the impromptu chase that he was set on by someone’s pesky little girl. He lets out a breath, raising his arm to rub the sweat off his face.

There’s an intake of air – sharp, surprised – and Noctis brings his hands down—

He feels his earlier relief pale and flush out—

Because, standing in front of him, unruly blond hair dusty and bronze in the light, blue eyes with a tinge of violet around the pupils, wide and surprised, stupid _goatee_ still there—

Was Prompto Argentum.

∞

Maybe he’s finally paid his dues. Maybe he’s finally piled up enough bulette-shit on one side of the scales. Maybe he’s finally accumulated enough hurt and enough pain to even the odds. Maybe he’s finally scored enough, bled enough to score a point on his side of the field. Maybe he’s done all that and more, pit his own life against a future he never wanted just so he could make sure that the game ends and they win, that they have a chance to run for another round, that humanity was still in it to win it. Doesn’t matter if he has to be the martyr and take the fall. Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t get to live to see the entire thing run to its conclusion, from start to finishing point, because he was never meant to see it end. Maybe he’s just done so goddamn much that maybe, just maybe – finally – he’s finally allowed to play by his own rules now.

Or maybe it’s just sheer coincidence like everything before—just one more chance in a line of chances, next after next.

Whatever it is, he’s not complaining about the fact that Prompto – his Prompto, his bestfriend, his brother in everything but name and blood – is gobsmacked as an Anak, eyes wide, lips open in surprise, and Noctis would have loved to have said something, maybe take a photo of it – _laugh –_ if he weren’t so fucking surprised himself. Because, never, in all the times that he’s thought of this moment – in all the seconds and minutes that turned to hail and snow, did he ever imagine it happening like this. In those moments in the snow, where he’s looking out from beyond the small campfire with his only chances of survival dependent on an old military torch and the slim packets of rations, in the moments of walking through the snow, the cold gnashing at his skin, wondering he can actually make it – wondering if he can actually go home – and he’s never imagined it to be like this.

He opens his mouth, lips moving – wanting to say the other’s name – because Prompto is looking at him like he’s a dream, a ghost and that he’s unreal and he wants Prompto know that he _is_ real, that he’s not a dream even if Noctis himself still needs some reassuring that he’s alive. But nothing comes out, no words, no noise. Suddenly, words are too trite. Suddenly, words were not enough.

Then – the surprise in those blue-purple eyes flash into anger, rage, _hate_ – and Noctis suddenly feels the brick wall against his back, the blond pushing him into a dark alley, past the lights where no one could see, as Prompto seethes at him, his face red with fury and a gun barrel against his chin.

“You think this is fucking _funny?_ ” The blond hisses, words venomous. “You think this is some _fucking_ joke? You _sick_ fuck, I’ll blow your fucking _brains_ out.”

Noctis coughs, the grip on his neck tight. “Prompto—it’s me. Noctis.”

The butt of the barrel presses into his skin as spit flies from the other’s lips. “Don’t. Don’t even fucking say _his_ name. Haven’t you taken enough? You’re _dead!_ You’re fucking _dead!_ ”

And beneath the rage, the anger, the murderous intent and the cold feel of Prompto’s gun on his chin, there’s pain in those blue eyes, there’s a haunted look just beneath the blue-purple tinge. “It’s me, Prom. You know it’s me.”

The blond growls and the grip on his neck is still tight, almost choking, but it’s trembling. The other is breathing raggedly, gasping, and Noctis doesn’t realize it soon enough that he’s actually _calm_ for once. He doesn’t feel fear as the barrel is pressed against his jaw—

What he feels—

Is—

Just pure elation.

And before he could stop himself, he _laughs._ He doesn’t know _why_ he’s laughing – he just does. He knows that Prompto might mistake it for something else, for fucking Ardyn and—wait, is that what Prompto thinks? That he was Ardyn masquerading as Noctis? Like a fucking parody of what the maniac did to Noctis on the train to Tenebrae? When Noctis had pushed Prompto off the train because he thought it had been Ardyn? Is that what it all was? He laughs even _harder,_ and even if Prompto would shoot him, his blood exploding against the wall, he’d probably still crackle because this was not just _funny,_ and stupid but also _cruel_ , also terrifying—

He notices that Prompto had been screaming ‘stop fucking laughing’, pressing his head against the wall, and he finally realizes that the warmth on his cheeks isn’t from the laughter, but tear tracks.

“Promp, it’s me.” He says, his voice hoarse from all the laughing-crying. “It’s me. I’m not Ardyn. It’s me, Noctis.”

“Shut up. Shut the _fuck_ up.” The other says, eyes wild and lips in a sneer. “I’ll kill you. I’ll fucking kill you, with my bare hands if I have to. I’ll fucking kill you over and over and—“

“Remember the photo I asked for? Before we went to the throne room to face Ardyn.” The hand stills, and Prompto doesn’t even look like he’s _breathing._ Noctis doesn’t stop, just tries to smile even when his cheek is pressed against the wall, suddenly tasting blood – did he not realize Prompto’s gun had cracked his lip open? He must have needed that laugh. “Remember how I asked for one, to take with me?”

The gun doesn’t budge, Prompto’s eyes are still hard. “That doesn’t fucking mean _anything._ That—“

“It did. To me.” He answers, ignores the dribble on his chin. “It was the one we took. In Cape Caem. Before we went to Altissia. Remember that?”

He knows Prompto remembers, even if the blond doesn’t say anything. Noctis raises his hand to grip the other’s shoulder and the butt of the gun presses tighter. “I know you remember. Everyone was there. Monica. Dustin. Talcott. Iris and Cor. Even Cid was there. Remember how you complained about the lighting? How the orange light was terrible and Cid made you shut up about it. ‘Take the damn picture already’ he said. Remember that?”

Prompto sneers at him. “Anyone could have fucking told you that. You could have tortured Monica or Dustin. Fucking Talcott. That doesn’t mean _anything._ ”

He doesn’t let that deter him. “Remember how we found you, in the middle of Zegnautus Keep, chained to the wall like a fucking animal? Remember how pissed off Gladio was, he broke the chains with his _fucking_ hands and Ignis looked like he was a second away from setting the entire place on fire?”

Noctis doesn’t give up, doesn’t look away from those eyes – eyes he’s known for so long, even before they had been friends. Eyes that have been on Noctis since his younger days, belonging to a chubby boy, hiding in the shadows, watching him and Gladio and Ignis. Eyes that always seem to want Noctis to _notice_ him. The same eyes that glowed with that same need when they met years later, when a thinner, trying-too-hard-to-be-cool Prompto introduced himself as if it was the first time they met—

“Remember how you tried to pretend that we for the first time in high school?” The blue-purple eyes blink, the anger fading just for a millisecond. “Remember how you tried to be some cool guy when you’re just the same loser that couldn’t say hi to me when you were twelve?”

The hand he has on Prompto’s shoulder moves to the other’s elbow, fingers gripping it softly. He was still wearing that same sleeveless jacket, like it was fucking made for him and the way Noctis’ heart jumped at the sight had his breath shortening. The shirt under the jacket had a very familiar design – the intricate details, wedges and circles and lines – the leather and cloth of a sturdy quality. Kingsglaive.

His mouth dries as he keeps on going. “Remember when we were in Longwythe? When we were staying at that motel and I couldn’t really sleep and I was on the rooftop? Remember how you sat next to me and you told me how you felt like you were just a burden to the group? How you didn’t bring anything to the table and that you fucking hated feeling like that?”

He grips the hand holding the pistol, fingers over Prompto’s skin. “Remember how I told you that we never thought of you like that? That you were our best friend, that we loved you just as much? That you were important to us? Remember how I told you that, straight to your face, over and over until you pushed me away because you finally understood, when we got you out of Zegnautus Keep? Remember how we fought through hell just to get to you because we _fucking_ love you?”

Prompto’s eyes were shining in the amber light, a sob itching to escape the grimace. “Remember how I told you that no friend of the prince was a loser, and if he _was_ a loser then that’d mean the prince was a loser, too?”

Noctis holds the hand over the gun, tight. He looks straight into Prompto’s eyes – sees the confusion battling the rage, the hatred, and the fear, and his heart aches at the fragile line of _hope_ swimming there – the possibility, the _what-if,_ the _could-it-really-be_ and Noctis moves the gun to point it at his own heart, turning to face the other directly. “I know that you _know_ it’s me, Prompto. I know that you know I’m not Ardyn. I don’t know how I’m alive, or even why. I just know that I am. I didn’t know if I could ever find you guys. I didn’t know where you were, if you guys were still alive, if I could even get back to you but you’re _here._ And I’m home.”

Doesn’t care if his voice breaks at the last word. Doesn’t care if his heart is beating faster than the seconds passing by. Doesn’t care that the gun is pointed directly at his heart as he drops his hand. He knows Prompto. He _trusts_ Prompto and he knows Prompto will never make the wrong choice.

The gun trembles a bit, the barrel fluttering against the shirt over his heart. Prompto’s voice is small, and no trace of the earlier spite is present, if it even existed at all. The words are weak, as fragile as the hope that lingers beneath it and, _fuck,_ Noctis wants to crush him in his arms and _never let go._

“Noct? Is it really you?”

And the words – they’re fucking _dramatic_ like the soap operas Prompto will forever fucking deny that he watches. They’re clumsy and trite and cheesy and Noctis fucking rolls his eyes at those shows, will never understand how Prompto has the stomach to watch through all that bulette-shit. But, goddamn, if his eyes aren’t burning, if his chest isn’t heaving, if the smile on his face isn’t _goddamn_ hopeful and bright and everything he wants Prompto to know—

“Of course, you loser. Takes one to know one, right?”

And before—

Before he could even breathe—

Before he could even _think—_

Before he could even register that the gun had fallen, not just lowered, actually _fell_ to the ground—

Before he could even do anything else—

Suddenly, there’s blond hair – unruly, spiky, like they’ll never be tamed and domesticated, like they’ll never be able to beat them into submission, no matter how many barcodes they tattoo against his skin, Prompto will _never_ be their – against his face and in his mouth. Suddenly, there’s the crushing weight of his _best_ friend in his arms, pressed against his neck, over his heart, around his waist and into his soul. Suddenly, there’s sweat and dirt and that faint scent of _citrus,_ and he doesn’t realize that he’s missed that smell, that he’s fucking _dreamt_ of it over and over, waking to nothing but snow and hoping that one day, he’ll not have to dream anymore. Suddenly, his arms are tight – enough to choke, to suffocate and crush – around the other’s smaller body. Suddenly, his fingers are gripping the strands of his blond hair tight, like the perfect dream a slumbering man tries in vain to hold on to, like he’s the fucking _sun_ and Noctis can’t let go of that, never again, he never wants to, not in this life or the next or the next. Suddenly, he’s crushing Prompto to him, like air, like a lifeline, like he’s the fucking future and he doesn’t have to sacrifice, not anymore, no more what-ifs. Suddenly, all the questions, the thoughts – the running nightmares of _what if they’ve moved on? What if they don’t want me anymore? What if I’m not_ needed _anymore? What if I don’t have a place in their lives anymore?_ – those ghosts and demons that cling to his skin and bones, to the whispering poisons in his ear and heart, they’re all gone, disappeared, gone without a single trace, erased like every sliver of Ardyn’s soul cleaved by the might of the avenging Kings of Yore. Suddenly, those fears are dead because the hope – the ever-growing, bumbling, _bursting_ hope that he’s wanted – is intrinsically real, undeniably real and _irrevocably_ real and all the nightmares he’s had to face to get here seem to pale in comparison, the snow melting into sand and into sea and into sunlight (and Prompto is pure sunlight and Noctis is basking in the light of a new day, a new dawn), seems so **_worth_ ** it now.

Suddenly, there are tears against his skin, on his neck and there are tears against Prompto’s hair. Suddenly, his lips find purchase against Prompto’s temple, by the lobe of his ear as his best friend unravels and trembles in his arms, unbelieving, hurting and sobbing against his chest. Suddenly, he takes note of the words he’s saying _‘it’s okay, I’m here, it’s okay, I’m not going anywhere, I’m not leaving, not anymore, I’ll always be here, you don’t have to be afraid, I’m real, I’m not going anywhere’_ , the same words that were branded onto his skin the moment those eyes recognized him. Suddenly, he realizes that he wasn’t just wanted – he was _missed,_ he was _mourned,_ and he was _grieved_ over. Suddenly, it dawns on him – seeps into his bones, truth and faith and hope – that it wasn’t just Noctis who feared being unable to move on.

And suddenly—

Prompto is rearing back, tears and snot and pure _fucking_ joy on his face—

Suddenly his voice is broken and ecstatic and angry, the words hurried and slobbered—

“You _fucking_ asshole!”

And Noctis only realizes, when he’s suddenly looking to the side and a sort of dull ache begins at his cheek, does he realize that Prompto just punched him in the face.

“You fucking _perfect,_ self- _sacrificing_ piece of shit!”

And Noctis – he can’t, he’s broken down, he’s wheels and axles and coil springs, on the ground and irreparable and _irreplaceable_ and he can’t— there’s a cavern in his chest the size of the Taelpar Crag and it’s bursting at the seams with all the things that he’s feeling, the things he was once afraid to name but not now, never again—

“What can I say? I’m the best.” And his words maybe spoken in mirth – maybe made in mirth – but the hope that _explodes_ across Prompto’s features only have a moment to be appreciated before Noctis has an armful of blond bestfriend.

“You _left_ us!” Prompto said – whispered, gasped – wet lips against his neck and Noctis presses a kiss against his temple. “I know.”

“I know you wanted us to live on, okay—“The words were hurried, threading, as if Prompto feared them running out before he could say them and Noctis knows – he knows how that feels, how the sands run from the cracks of his fingers, how the smoke of what-if disappear no matter how hard he tries to hold on – and he knows that, now, in this moment, in this _second chance_ at life, he’ll never be afraid again. “I know you had to do it. I know you had to, to save the world because you’re _that_ perfect and—“

He doesn’t even half the heart to feel embarrassed as he holds Prompto tight, his lips making soothing noises. Doesn’t even care that his own tears are relentless, how his own heart had exploded into a million pieces that beat simultaneously because, damn it, he was missed—

He was wanted—

“But it _hurt,_ Noct. It fucking _hurts_ so bad to bury you. It fucking killed us to throw dirt over you. Fuck, I—“and there was gasping and coughing and breath staggering and there’s hands on his face, pulling him down, turning him to face the other, doesn’t even _care_ that their noses are pressed against one another, that his breath smelled like _shit_ and it was fanning over Prompto’s face, that stupid goatee rough against his chin. “I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t, not _without_ you and, and, _fuck,_ I—I thought I had to live with this, this _fucking hole_ in my chest like—“

He threads his fingers through Prompto’s hair, delighted at the shine of pale gold in the light, even as his mind runs blank and his heart is drowning in so much _damn_ fondness and affection and his inside are mush, aren’t they?

(he’s wanted, he’s missed, he wasn’t forgotten, he’ll _never_ be forgotten)

“And Ignis, fucking Ignis couldn’t—he couldn’t even go a day by without breaking down—and the big guy – shit, _fuck¸_ Noct, Gladio – it’s like the whole world ended for him, he’s changed _so_ much and he couldn’t—couldn’t let go of your body, screamed at anyone who wanted to take you away from him and Noct, everything was so hard and—“Prompto blubbers, saliva and spit and tears in a line down his lips and, fuck, it’s disgusting but he can’t help but squeeze his bestfriend close because his bestfriend, his brother, one of them, is so fucking beautiful and perfect and just, even if his heart skips twice at the mention of Ignis and completely catapults off its hinges at Gladio’s name—

“Things aren’t the same without you. We’re not the same without you.”

∞

They don’t let go of each other, not even once.

Not even when they stagger through the market and the plaza – towards the Leville, to the south. Not even when some of the tourists turn to look at them – in concern or in consternation – at two _adult_ men bumbling and tripping, arms over each other’s neck, eyes red and grins far too bright and wide and if they pull their kids back because ‘Mom, look at him, is he drunk?’ then they don’t give a shit. Not even when Prompto turns to press his face against his neck and just _breathe_ like Noctis hadn’t been covered in sweat, snow, dirt and snot.

If the receptionist thinks funny about the way they cling to one another, at the softly spoken words between them, the way his arm doesn’t leave Prompto’s waist, or how he whispers to him instead of talking, if he spends far _too_ much time just staring into blue-violet eyes, if she has something to say about the way Noctis raises his thumb and wipes the tears away from his bestfriend’s eyes, how he pulls him close and breathes in _citrus_ and _sunlight_ and if she anything to fucking say about that, then Noctis doesn’t give a goddamn _shit._ Let them talk what they want. Let them think what they want.

 _Nothing_ they can conjure will ever amount to how fucking _important_ this was to him.

They don’t use the elevator – they climb the stairs.

He bumps into Prompto and Prompto bumps back into him and they laugh, cackle like crazy, as they tumble against the hideous wallpaper of the Leville, ignores the amused look thrown their way by the passing bellboy and, more or less, collapse into the doorway of their room. Prompto guffaws as Noctis chuckles into his chest, tangle of limbs, slowly rising to a stand to close the door. He knows the logical thing will be to let go of one another so they can get in _properly._ He knows that Prompto will not disappear the moment he stops touching him.

He knows that, and he politely gives a mental middle finger to the thought.

A stray thought flies by in the edges of his consciousness, the small regions of his mind that isn’t addicted to citrus and sunlight and he’s chuckling again.

Prompto raises a brow at him, eyes still red but the light in them – glowing, brighter than Ramuh – and the smile on his face is soft. “What?”

Noctis snorts _elegantly_ just because he can. “I forgot my clothes. At the fucking fountain.”

Prompto rolls his eyes, grinning. “Go get them, then.”

Noctis nods, clasping Prompto’s outstretched hand with his. “Yeah.”

And he doesn’t let go.

And he doesn’t go out to find his clothes.

And Prompto pulls him into the double bed.

And he freefalls with him, diving into the infinite oceans of _home._

∞

Noctis is never going to hate on the stupid, ugly, horrible wallpaper of the Leville ever again; it’s a fucking masterpiece – the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He’s fucking _euphoric_ to be staring at the molding blue wallpaper-daemon-hiding-as-a-décor-monstrosity as he shifts in bed and into Prompto’s arms.

The little blond chocobo – because he _is_ a fucking chocobo and nobody can tell him otherwise, plus Hope will back him up with his know-it-all squawking – whines and hums like a goddamn dream and Noctis chuckles, holding him close.

He’s here—with a bullet probably somewhere in his chest, snow fucking growing in his lungs and more blood than he can ever quantify tattooed on to his hands, the ghost of a sword wound on his chest and the invisible traces of death and desperation, black and burning, a remnant of his family’s legacy onto his skin—so that other people didn’t _have_ to.

So that Prompto can keep making the world more beautiful just by fucking existing. So that Ignis wouldn’t have to dedicate more of his life, his vision, his entire body to a dying dream. So that Gladio wouldn’t have to carry more scars, more hurts, bleed more than what he’s sacrificed already, for a cycle that will never end. So that the fucking Astrals wouldn’t have to start reaching further, encompassing and pulling, dragging people into their whims and schemes, to brand and command and exploit.

So they wouldn’t ask for his family. So that none of this will ever have to happen again.

“You okay?” Prompto asks, and the question is breathed almost silently. Okay? He wasn’t. Not at all. Maybe he’ll never be okay.

“Fucking peachy.” He says. Honestly.

The silence that grows between them is calm, warm – and his hands trace the slope of Prompto’s bare arms, up to the hair growing at his nape and down his still-sharp jaw. There are faint lines of age under his eyes, almost invisible but still there, a reminder of the time that’s been gone, the time that’s been spent—

And he won’t spend whatever’s left regretting.

“Your goatee is still so stupid.” Noctis says, quietly, smirking at the slight frown marring Prompto’s features.

“At least I don’t have a babysnatcher beard.”

“Hey!”

And they grow silent again, each looking into the other’s eyes – memorizing, confirming, making sure that this was real, this _is_ real and this will _always_ be real—

And the _if_ had turned to _when_ and had turned to _is_ and into _will always be._

“Tell me.” Noctis says, and Prompto hums, questioning. “Tell me about the world. About after.”

And the pain returns—

The fear returns—

But Prompto smiles—

It’s courageous and bold and everything Prompto is, everything Noctis _knows_ he is and can be—

And he knows – it’s not just Noctis fixing himself, patting the dust away and standing to face the coming dawn. A part of him is finally complete.

“Well,” He begins, words almost a whisper. “We were fighting an army of iron giants and goblins and suddenly, there was this explosion of light…”

He listens, doesn’t speak a word, just sets his forehead against Prompto’s and listen to the broken whispers tumbling out, recounting the years that he’s gone past, rewinding the minutes of the clock, the sands of the hourglass flying back up, all back to the moment he had taken that final step, felt the bite of his father’s sword slide deep through his skin, past his ribs and into his heart. He hums, to remind Prompto that he’s there, holds him close as the blond tremble in his hold, the blue-violet eyes growing glassier with each passing second, until he has to stop, to stifle the sobs and the gasps and Noctis merely holds him close, knowing that there was no better, no firmer, no truer assurance than his own heart beating under Prompto’s hand.

And when Prompto has the strength to continue, he does so with a bravery that Noctis can never _not_ be proud of. A bravery born of pain and desperation, of years gone lost and off-course – hanging over a log in a turbulent sea – the kind of bravery that is learned through deep trials and pain, the kind of bravery that had Noctis stepping up to his destiny, to a final sacrifice, the same bravery that kept him climbing those final steps, his back turned to the three because if he looks one more time, one _last_ time, once, he’ll never have the strength to go through with it.

He listens and smiles as the people of Lestallum thrived, had walked past the floodlights and back to the open world and know that no daemon will plague their lands again, to how Cid – codger pretty much immortal – and Cindy had turned the old Magitek carriers that had stopped functioning after Ardyn’s death into public use, how they’re now used to ease the travel between the continents by _air,_ to the tales of Aranea and Cor and Iris – how they set expeditions to the far-flung reaches of Lucis and Eos, building new homes and new dreams, to the only-sliver remains of the fear that the sky will darken, and that when they look heavensward, there are no black clouds blanketing the sky – only the endless fields of stars and the bright moon, and Eos is rife with life even when the sun sets to sleep.

He presses his nose against Prompto’s cheek as he listens to the changes the world had gone through when both King and Crystal disappeared, after that explosion of light that ruptured the entire Citadel to its very foundations. To the once-active molten flows of the Ravatogh now turned to stone, the scarlet blood greying out to black then to brown, and life begins to grow on the once infernal slopes, until the entire volcano is covered in fields of red and blue and yellow, the scent of lilies and roses distinct even from the foot of the mountain range. He pulls the blanket up their bodies as Prompto talks to him about the seas across Eos grow larger, the old city of Altissia drowning under the stormy waves - rushing through Taelpar Crag and it’s not a crag anymore, but a beautiful _river_ and how there are news now of undiscovered lands, islands growing, slowly and quietly, appearing from the distant corners of the ocean – from the Styrian Swells in the east to the Galahdian oceans of the west and the Cygillian to the south. The storms over Duscae had grown calmer now – no longer as tenacious and thunderous as they were before – and the desert that once made up Leide had started to lessen, the forests of the Malacchi hills and the Kettier highlands start to cross over into Longwythe. Rain had poured into the Disc of Cauthess for months until it turned into a lake, how the earth around it seemed to grow until what was left of it were the few arches spiraling around Lake Cauthess.

The old Solheim ruins – the royal tombs – had collapsed during the long night and when the sun had broken over the horizon and the expeditions had reached them, they attested that only the pillars reminded them of a time long gone. The Kings of Lucis were now slowly turning into myths, into fey tales, of an ancient time.

“There’s no Lucis, anymore.” Prompto says, and Noctis hums. The idea doesn’t really bother him, not anymore. “There’s no monarchy, no Niffs, no empire. Everyone seems to rule in their own stead, now. Democracies. Lestallum is the capital of the new republic, Noct. We have a president, and they have this thing called a senate where everyone gets to choose how the country should go. There’s no royal line of command. People can vote for who they want to represent them on the senate – this big gigantic council – and there’s no such thing as nobles and commoners. Everyone’s equal. We’re all one people now.”

He knows that it’s merely a summary of what’s happened – knows that no matter what type of government there was in place, there’ll always be dissidents and supporters, people itching for trouble and those wanting a better future. Still, doesn’t change the fact that he’s hopeful, that it’s for the better.

“That’s good.” He says, smiling. “There shouldn’t be another monarchy. No more kings and queens.” _Nobody has to go through that ever again._

Prompto smiles back. “Yeah. The government isn’t the same as it was with the monarchy, then. It’s still new, the first republic, just three years in the making. There’s no pizzazz to it, just a president and the senate meeting every month to talk about what’s goin’ on, what’s rebuilding, y’know, _living on._ ”

He smirks at the pointedness of the word and reaches up to thread his fingers through Prompto’s hair. “You’re suddenly very up to date with what’s happening. Did Ignis finally get to you with those history lessons?”

The red that grows on the other’s cheek is suspicious…and adorable, and Noctis laughs, aloud, as the other scrambles for an explanation. “Can’t help it when the person you’re seeing is the president.”

Noctis’ laugh is cut short, and he chokes on it.

His own face grows red as he coughs and Prompto reaches to pat him on the back.

When he could finally breathe without gasping again, Prompto’s face is concerned as Noctis looks at him in the eye.

They grow wide and worried, before braving up and looking back at him just as fiercely.

“What? So, he _is._ We’re not together _together,_ just, y’know…together.”

And Noctis just says, because he’s not surprised, _not_ at all, of course fucking Ignis Scientia would change the freaking world, it was in his blood— “Called it.”

Prompto merely rolls his eyes at him and Noctis smiles wide at the _other’s_ smile, the softness at the edges and can’t help but feel just so _fucking_ happy for him. For them. For the world. For all of them – moving on, living on. Onwards. Forwards.

And—

“How—“He starts, then cuts himself short, eyes flashing to Prompto’s for a moment. Then, the gaze on him grows _even_ softer, a lot more understanding. His heart _hurts,_ his entire soul freezes because what if—

What if Gladio—

A Shield is fated to die by his King’s side, not to outlive him.

What if—

“Gladio?” Noctis nods, biting his lips. There’s something inquisitive in those blue-violet eyes, something that could see through Noctis’ skin. He remembers how Prompto once told him, during that night at Longwythe, their legs hanging over the signage of the motel they were staying at – how he wasn’t always this cheery, this energetic, how he tries to be like that all the time because it’s the only thing he could contribute to the group – and Noctis can’t help but feel that was wrong, can’t help but note that Prompto knows more than he lots on, especially when the smile that grows on those lips are a tad shiftier, corners tilting up.

“Gladio, huh.” He repeats, and Noctis feels his _own_ cheeks redden. “Called it.”

And that Prompto knows more about him than Noctis knows about himself. Something about that is soothing, though. He can’t describe just how soothing and relieving it is.

Prompto raises a hand to comb through Noctis’ scraggly hair. “The big guy—well. Losing you was the hardest on him. When we found you there – on that throne, with your dad’s sword in your chest – he just…broke. Fell to his knees. Won’t even make a sound.”

His chest is tight, the edges of his vision blurry as the image is streaked in his mind. Strong, indomitable Gladio – neither the fall of Insomnia nor the death of his father had him falling, still as strong as ever while Noctis clutched at the ground underneath him – the image of him, breaking, over Noctis’ body—

He can’t imagine it but, at the same time, the image in his head persists. Prompto just held his hand, tight. “He just kept shaking his head, saying ‘no’ over and over. I mean, we knew it was going to happen, Noct. You told us that. All of us knew it, even Gladio but—I guess, seeing you, actually seeing you _dead_ was too much for him.”

The breath he lets out isn’t even broken – it’s _destroyed._ “And—“

“Wouldn’t let you go for hours. Wouldn’t even let me and Ignis touch you. It took us and Cor and Aranea to pull him off you, and when we did, he _refused_ to let you out of sight. Just kept saying your name and that you needed him.”

“He—“Noctis swallows the lump in his throat – the fucking ocean – and croaks. “He said that?”

Prompto nods, and the shared misery in his eyes brooked no lie. “Wouldn’t even go to bed, just kept guarding over you like a damn pack hound. We buried you where the Citadel was – thought it was fitting considering the king, your dad, was buried there and the big guy, he—“

“What,” Noctis needs to know – needs to hear every word, each syllable from Prompto – can’t blink and can’t sleep without knowing, now that Prompto’s here and suddenly the idea, the reality of Gladio could be hurtling back, stronger than ever, and his hopes are high as they could be and he just really needs to _goddamn_ know. “What happened to Gladio?”

Prompto’s eyes glimmer, heartbroken. “He just broke down. There was no light to him, Noct. He just lost hope. Just kept standing over your grave everyday, just talking to you and it’s always the same thing – ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe.’ – and, Noct, it killed us to see him like that. He wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t even sleep. Even Iris didn’t know what to do, and she already had her hands full with the recovery efforts and Talcott. Cor talked to him, well, not talked as so much beat the living shit out of Gladio before talking to him and it was only after that the big guy started to eat and get some sleep.”

He starts to wonder – why he can’t breathe, why he can’t gasp in air – and he wonders why Prompto’s blurred into a miasma of light and shadows and yellow and it’s only when Prompto wipes the tears that he realizes what’s even happening.

“He’s a _fucking_ idiot,” Noctis says – growls, actually – as he rubs the tears away, feels the dull numbness of his skin. Why does Gladio have to be so _stupid,_ so goddamn stupid and perfect and so—why does it hurt? Why does the idea of Gladio so torn up and broken at his death feel like there’s glass in his lungs and sand in his throat and thorns inside his heart? Why must that big oaf be so fucking noble and perfect and—

Eveything he loves to the ends of the earth.

“He’s such a fucking idiot.” And Noctis is angry – pissed off- _furious_ because didn’t he tell Gladio to live on? To walk tall and carry his memory and legacy? To be the pillar the world needs because that’s what it fucking needs right now, a place to stand and rise and rebuild itself? And he spent the entire time mourning a dead King and letting it eat at him, slowly killing him and—

He’s not sure if the warmth, the fire – the torrential inferno inside his heart – is anger or pain or just so much fucking _love._

“He could say the same thing about you.” Prompto says, quietly, smiling a bit and Noctis snorts through the tears, breathing through his mouth. He turns on his side, hand still on Prompto, to look at the cracks of the ceiling and breathe.

“What happened after?”

Prompto shrugs, turning on his side, too. “Things weren’t the same, but we kept trudging forward, even if it hurt. We couldn’t just roll over and die with you when you _commanded_ us to live on, as your retainers. So, we did. We helped the world rebuild, we helped the world stand back up. Ignis was the brains of the operations, he led the entire thing. It’s no wonder people chose him to be president. I did what I could, helping with Iris’ recovery efforts, sometimes with Aranea and Cor on their expeditions, help the refugees – the kids, especially. I know how it’s like not to have a home, but three guys took a chance on me. Figured someone should take a chance on those orphans, too.”

Doesn’t know what to say to the heartbreakingly beautiful smile on Prompto’s face, so he blinks and looks away and holds the blond’s hand tighter, urging him to go on.

“And Gladio – he took over as the Grandmaster of the hunters when Dave retired. Poor guy broke his leg during an accident, thank the Astrals that Dr. Sania managed to save it. He’s keeping it slow nowadays, back at the headquarters in Meldacio. It’s a fucking fortress, now, there’s a lot of new hunters. Gladio’s always had a way with people. Everyone respects him, he’s like a fucking hero.”

Noctis smiles, grins, doesn’t tell Prompto how much of a hero Gladio was to him. How each of them saved _his_ life, just the mere thought of them kept him trudging through the snow and the cold. “So, he’s in Meldacio now?”

Prompto makes a negating sound. “No. He’s in…well, he’s in Insomnia.”

He turns to the other, confused. “Why’s he there?”

All he gets is a pointed look at him and Noctis groans, irritated again. “Cut him some slack, Noct. He just wants to make sure that nobody’s messin’ around the ruins, what with the pilgrimages and all.”

A brow is raised, incredulous. “Pilgrimages?”

The grin on Prompto’s face is mischievous – sneaky, even – and Noctis already regrets asking that. It’s the same face that Prompto gets when Noctis unknowingly agrees to another stupid excursion that is _definitely_ going to end badly and with Ignis tapping his right foot and a finger pressed to his temple at the end of the day. “Yeah, you won’t believe it, bud, but you’re a legend now.”

The word falls short of registering and Noctis’ voice is blank. “A legend?”

The other shrugs. “Well, not really _you_ but your family, mostly. Word spread that you guys bringing back the light was a sign of you turning into gods or something. Especially with what’s happening around the world – the Ravatogh going to sleep and the Disc of Cauthess turning into a lake, they think your family – you and your dad mostly – changed the world. People flock to Insomnia now, to visit it and, dunno, pay their respects? It’s a popular tourist destination, especially during the summer.”

The grin on Prompto’s grows larger as the red on Noctis’ cheeks grow deeper. When the other laughs, Noctis elbows him. “Shut up, asshole.”

The other continues to laugh, and Noctis cherishes the sound even as he feels quite uncomfortable of strangers praying over his grave. It was just _weird._ His mind is still boggling with all the information – the massive dump that Prompto had on him – and he knows it’ll take a while before everything sort of settles in. The world had changed, for the better, yes, but it had and it was strange to him.

But he had time to get to know this world now. He had all the time in the world.

“He’s not there all the time, though.” Prompto continues, after the laughter has gone. Noctis doesn’t even have to ask who he means by ‘he’. “But when he’s in Insomnia, he checks the royal sepulcher, makes sure nobody’s in places where they shouldn’t be. Asked him once, why he kept coming back. Y’know what he said? He kept saying that he’s waitin’ for something. Something’s keepin’ him there.”

The look is full of meaning. “Guess he wasn’t wrong.”

And there’s so much Noctis wants to say but doesn’t know the words – not yet – and if he does have the words, it’s not for Prompto, it’s for Gladio, for the two of them, and he swallows. Quiet. “He’s an idiot.”

“Maybe,” The tone is mirthful. “You should ease up on him, though.”

“Yes, sir,” Noctis says, rolling his eyes and shifting his head against the pillow.

Prompto grins. “Save the ‘sir’ stuff for Grandmaster Amicitia,” he says. “Who you’re going to go see as soon as you’re done here.”

Noctis chokes so hard Prompto has to pound on his back until he manages to cough up whatever it was that slid halfway down his throat. “I—what the fuck?”

“He needs the closer just as much as I do, plus Ignis can wait,” Prompto says, turning the tail end of the pounding into a consolatory pat that was some sad attempt to be consoling. “Gladio will need that. Possibly more. He’s not as acclimated to it as I am.”

“To what?” Noctis breathes out.

“Loving you,” Prompto simply says.

Noctis chokes again.

On air.

∞

They spend the night talking, just chatting until Noctis’ stomach had enough of their melodramatic, soap opera-ish reunion and announced to the world that it was fucking hungry. He doesn’t have it in him to be ashamed of his smile and Prompto rolls his eyes, before running off to call for room service and food. He counts only up to a hundred forty-eight before Prompto is running back into his arms, not willing to part.

When the bellboy arrives with their food – there’s no one answering the knock. The knob jiggles and the bellboy peeks his head in, masterkey slipped into the doorknob. When he sees the two occupants asleep, holding each other close, he simply places the tray on the nearest table and locks the door as he steps back.

∞

In the morning, it’s Noctis who wakes up first. The light is full and warm against his face, and he squints against it, turning on his side and feels the arms around him tighten. Prompto makes a distressed sound as he tries to move away and Noctis relents with being turned into a makeshift body pillow. It’s the best sacrifice he’s had to make so far.

Breakfast consists of the now-cold food served last night and if they spend too much time just eating, looking at each other and—“Yeah, Promp, the goatee really has to go”, “you love it, buddy”, _he really does—_ taking down each detail of the other, then it was okay. They had all the time.

There was a Magitek carrier – now a public transport – on the pad outside Altissia, target destination was Insomnia. The sun was bright, the sand golden as the breeze lifted and the distant Sathersea glowed blue. _Lionheart,_ the name was painted onto the side of the ship. Noctis lifts his head as the ramp lowers down, shifts in his position, amongst the many passengers waiting to board. Beside him, Prompto grins and, pulls out a phone, turns the front camera on. The smile on their faces rival the glare of the morning sun.

The flight is easy – boring, even – but he doesn’t really notice it, sitting next to Prompto, eyeing the lands outside the window – the distant Ravatogh visible from all corners of Lucis, and there _is_ no red, only a fleet of flowers growing on the slope. Lake Cauthess’s waters are calm, still, blue-green in the light, and in the distance, Lestallum’s towers spire high. When the overhead speakers announce entry of Insomnia territory, Prompto turns to him, eyes searching Noctis’ for a moment, before quietly asking.

“Ready?”

It’s funny how you can almost _hear_ Noctis’ smile.

“Ready.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 CHOCOBRO DOWN, 2 TO GO.
> 
> Okay so a few pointers here:
> 
> A.) I'm gonna be honest - and I'm pretty sure I'm gonna get some/a lot of flak for this: there is no Ignis/Noctis reunion in this fic. I originally planned to, but having Noctis travel all over Lucis would set the pacing further than it already has (and you can see that I'm taking a lot of rushing action for this chapter alone since I want to focus on the GladNoct soon). That doesn't mean that I won't be writing an Ignis/Noctis fic for this particular universe since I am sort of turning this into a series. More like expansion fics for more series entries since there's a lot of worldbuilding here that I want to explore - the other towns, the government, the undiscovered regions, how the characters are doing and whatnot. I'm not sure if they're gonna be chaptered or oneshots but they'll be happening in this fic's particular universe. So, tl;dr, Ignis will get his moment, not just this one. I'm sorry (not really). ; A;
> 
> B.) Speaking of the expansion, that's also one thing I wanted to know from you guys? Do you still want to read more about the universe here? When this fic wraps up, it can work pretty much as a standalone fix-it ending but I was also thinking that there's a lot of potential in this fic's universe and I wanted to explore that. Drop your thoughts below! :)
> 
> C.) I'll be doing a double chapter update next since it's all GladNoct. Epilogue will be right after so I'm tallying this story at a total of 7 chapters. So, please expect those chapters to come in a bit later than usual since I'll be writing 2 instead of 1. :)
> 
> D.) On the content of this chapter, I intended to have it seem like it's a Prompto/Noctis chapter simply because, yknow, they're bestfriends and one died 8 years ago and he comes back - I mean, I needed something more than just some goddamn 'hey' like they did in the game. Fucking what.
> 
> E.) As you can see, I am very frustrated. I love tactile comfort.
> 
> F. Wanna know what I missed? I forgot Altissia was on a different continent to Niflheim. So when I looked up at the map and realized - oh, wait, no, after Cartanica, it's the ocean but there's no Altissia?? How did they even get there?? Did they show the boys sailing twice?? Wait fuck damn it - and then the world building fix happened. LOL. I am so sorry 
> 
>  
> 
> I guess that's pretty much it for now? Thank you so much for the love and the comments and the faith in the last chapter. This has been a really enjoyable ride and the finish line is almost there. Thank you for motivating me, pushing me and keeping me on the route forward. On and on and on. :)


	5. something always brings me back to you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> they were always meant to meet - in this life and the next and the next and the next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OKAY SO I MAY OR MAY NOT HAVE TEARED UP WHILE WRITING THIS AND CH 6.
> 
> Just.
> 
> While writing this story and reading the oh so perfect and lovely comments, I've become a bit terrified of how hyped it was leading to the GladNoct reunion. I started thinking 'what if it's not gonna live up to what my readers have expected and they're just gonna end up disappointed?' so, yeah. Hopefully it's not gonna be disappointing. :)
> 
> I also wrote this in a one gigantic whirl so please forgive so many of my mistakes, I'm slowly editing them out, please be patient with me! <3
> 
> Also 2.0: I did some sketches on how Gladio looks like in this story and, yeah, disclaimer I'm not a decent artist at all so I'm sorry if it sucks.
> 
> title taken from 'Gravity' by Sara Bareilles.

> **chapter V:** something always brings me back to you

* * *

 

 

 

 

The last time he had been in Insomnia, the sky had been bearing down on them with true darkness – not even the light of the stars and the moon could break through the shade thrown over the world. Rubble and debris scattered across the empty streets, upturned vehicles and fallen lamp posts cutting into the crevices on the roads. All the establishments – that one fast-food restaurant Noctis once worked, or the videogame shop Prompto swung by almost  _ every  _ day – they had all been destroyed: from the imperial bombings, the daemons surging from the ground up, to the test of time as darkness rolled over the lands. The remaining skyscrapers were lit – powered – a slithering trap that beckoned at them to approach, the monument once dedicated to his father now the throne of a daemonic thrall, a parody of the Infernian.

With the sun high in the sky, the remains of the Crown City was evident. Gone were the spires that dotted the Insomnian landscape – the steel beams and concrete, glass windows and the numerous lights – crushed to the ground like fallen towers of blocks. The trees that were once set in walkways beside open roads had grown over, their branches thick and drooping at the weight, vines skittering around trunks, the tall blades of the grass and the weeds sprouting out. The statues of Yore that once stood guard over Insomnia had gone – no trace of them remains save the pedestals they once stood on. Time and decay had left their mark on Insomnia – the rusting steel, the dust piling in the crags of the fallen debris, the faded features of the stone statues, their broken arms on the ground – and what had been a shining light in Noctis’ memory was nothing but a legend for the present. Like the ravages of the centuries bearing down on ancient Solheim, Insomnia would slowly but inevitably follow.

“Were there any survivors from Insomnia? During the long night?” He asked, turning to his companion. Prompto turned in his seat, unbuckling the belt from his chair as the overhead sign flashed on. An attendant swept past the aisle, bringing a wheelchair for the elderly man at the front row of the passenger area.

“Not so much,” Prompto answered, eyes going dark for a bit. “By the time we got to Gralea, the Niffs pretty much had Insomnia by then. Either the people fell to the imperials…or the daemons.”

Noctis frowned. He knew that Niflheim had seized control of the capital by the time of the truce, but he had expected that their end was only to gain the Crystal. To imagine that the imperials would cut down people — who was he kidding, there was no such thing as mercy in war. Even if you had no part to play in it, even if you were just at the sidelines, anyone not on your side was against you and everyone against you was a target. To the imperials, it didn’t matter if the person they were shooting was a soldier or an unarmed citizen.

He looks back at Prompto and sighs. Not everything was so black and white. Something good had to come out from the empire and, well, the person sitting next to him was proof of that. To the citizens of Lucis, those who just wanted to get by and live, it didn’t matter if the person helping them bore imperial colors or the black standards of the Lucis Caelums. The high lords can play their games, yet only the low suffered.

It was an ugly thought, but it didn’t make  _ untrue.  _ Even if Noctis had a lot to say about it, he knows that the best thing he can do – the best thing  _ anyone _ can do is just move forward.

When the transport staff informs them that they were now ready to alight, Noctis followed Prompto through the lines of the other passengers, keeping his head down as the attendants smiled politely at them from the sides. It was weird coming back to Insomnia and knowing that not a single person here recognized him – that the moment he stepped out of the transport, his feet on the ground and walking to the customs kiosk, there were no cheers and waves, no genuflections and photographs. He was relieved, of course. He had never sat well with the publicity, no matter how long he had trained for it, but the apathetic gaze of the other passengers – their eyes looking  _ over  _ him – was a bit of a surprise. A good surprise, but a surprise nonetheless.

Prompto seemed to share his thoughts as he simply bumped into his shoulder and grinned at him. Grimacing, Noctis bumped back into him and followed the blond towards the kiosks barring entry into the city proper of Insomnia.

“When did that get set up?” He asked, gesturing to the lines. Prompto was pulling his wallet out, looking through the contents.

“Over about four years ago, when people really started coming to Insomnia. Cor suggested that they place a security detail since they can’t always have the Grandmaster of the hunters do background checks on the tourists. Plus, more employment.” They fall in line, two down from the counter, just behind an elderly couple taking photos of the massive rubbles beyond the kiosks.

Noctis frowns. “Isn’t it dangerous to be here? Why are they even going here in the first place? What kind of pilgrimages?”

Prompto raises a brow, smiling wide. “Wow, you’re awfully curious. Afraid they might be dancing on your graves and stuff?”

He represses a shudder at the mental image. “I hope not.”

The other simply shrugs, eyes growing secretive. “You’ll see.”

And before Noctis could even ask him about  _ that –  _ never mind the secretive way Prompto smiled,  _ since when was Prompto secretive  _ – they were next, the clerk behind the glass looking up at them, her spectacles reflecting the computer screen on her desk. Noctis watched as she looked at him, eyes inquisitive – probably gazing over his beard and the number of cuts on his lips – and he tries to look as innocent as possible. The gaze flicks over to the man next to him and her eyes light up in recognition.

“Hey, Queen,” Prompto greeted, voice singsong as he waved at her. The clerk – Queen – smiled and nodded, raising a hand to adjust her glasses. The guard beside the kiosk, holding the gate closed, nodded at Prompto before looking at Noctis curiously. He looked away from the man’s gaze and focused on the conversation between the other two.

“It’s good to see you, Mr. Agentum.” Her voice was prim – even – and she raised a brow as Prompto leaned on to the counter. “I take it you are visiting Lord Amicitia?”

Noctis keeps his face as straight as possible at the mention of Gladio – he was the eldest son of the family, it was obvious he’d take over the title when his father, Clarus, had died protecting Regis – and turns to look at the line growing behind them. A boy – probably around six years old – looks up at him then hurriedly turns back to his parent. Yeah, the beard wasn’t everyone’s favorite.

“Gotcha, Queen. So can we—“Prompto asked, grin growing wider as he gestured to the exit. Queen’s gaze was stern.

“Everyone has to show identification, Mr. Argentum. No exceptions. I’m sure Lord Amicitia would agree.”

Prompto groans, as dramatic as usual and Noctis has to grin, raising a hand to pat at his friend’s back. As if remembering, Prompto turns to him to smile sweetly before facing the clerk again. “Alright, alright.”

He hands over a card and Noctis holds back a snicker at the serious-looking Prompto on it. “And it’s Prompto, Queen. I keep telling you that.”

Queen nodded, looking at the card before typing something on her computer. “As you wish, Mr. Argentum.”

Prompto sighs again, settles at leaning over the counter and grinning at Noctis. When the clerk returns the card to him with a polite smile, he bids goodbye to the clerk. He’s about to follow Prompto through the open gate when the guard extends an arm over, blocking him. “Sir, please go through customs first.”

The clerk looks at him, gaze curious as ever. “Identification, please.”

Aaaaand  _ shit,  _ he has nothing to present. Mouth open in confusion, Noctis turns from the clerk to the guard – swiveling – and it takes Prompto coming back to the window for him to stand aside. He hears a few impatient sounds from the line behind him and ducks his head.

“Yeah, uh, Queen, he’s my visitor. Trust me, I know him and he’s clean. Really,  _ really  _ clean. Cleaner than me.” Prompto says, his tone turning into one that Noctis is very familiar with – the kind of tone Prompto uses when he wants to convince Ignis of something, well, something either stupid or dangerous or both – and watches as the clerk is not amused at all.

“There are no exceptions, Mr. Argentum. Even for you.” She said, voice losing the small warmth she had earlier.

“Can you please call Gladio? I’m sure he can vouch for me. Please?” He asked, tone pleading, and Noctis tries to give her the puppy eyes as she looked at him. It worked on Snow, right? Maybe it could work on his female version, too. Maybe.

There’s a growing rumble from behind as more people start to complain about the heat and the line being held up. The guard over the gate was unflinching, as if not even noticing the chatter, and the clerk was still looking at him and Prompto – clear, dark eyes beneath her glasses and—

She picks up a telephone and dials.

Prompto visibly deflates in relief. Noctis pats him on the back, again. He’s taking this quite calmly, if he says so himself. There were worse sacrifices. 

“Yes—I believe he is confident—He did show us his identification  _ this  _ time—“Queen turned to look pointedly at Prompto. The blond man lets out a guilty chuckle as Noctis rolls his eyes and thumps him on the back of the head. “Alright, sir.”

She turns to them, phone out. “Lord Amicitia would like a word with you.”

“I’m sure he does,” Prompto mutters, grabbing the phone. Some of the people behind them walk to the counter on the next aisle now that it was clear. “Yeah, c’mon, Glad, I know you trust me. Hey, that was just  _ one _ time. Not you, too – I already get enough of that from Iggy. Sheesh, ease up, big guy. Yeah, yeah, I know.”

He feels the sweat grow in his hands, hearing Prompto talk to Gladio and not knowing  _ what  _ to make of it. His hands itch to grab the phone, to put that small speaker against his ear and listen to the baritone voice – the gruff and the hoarseness – to hear it over and over until it’s the only thing he knows. For a moment, he just wants to step in close, slip into the space between Prompto’s ear and the phone, just makes sure that it really  _ is  _ Gladio and his heart can stop thundering against his chest, banging against his ribs and he won’t have to breathe deep just to keep himself standing. A hand holds his tight, and he looks up to Prompto’s eyes and there’s that fucking  _ affection  _ again and Noctis blinks back whatever it was in his e—oh,  _ fuck it,  _ he’s emotional, okay, he admits that—and gives a tight-lipped smile back.

“I got someone I want you to meet, anyway.” Prompto says, voice low and just so  _ fond.  _ He looks back up at Noctis as he smiles brightly. “Yeah, he’s—he’s one of a kind.”

_ Fuck. _

He is  _ not  _ getting emotional here.

He is  _ not  _ getting emotional in front of the guard that is looking at him, partly in concern.

He is  _ not  _ getting emotional in front of the unblinking eyes of the clerk.

He is  _ not, _ and if Prompto would just  _ hurry _ up and get the call over and done with so he could find Gladio and fucking just – breathe him in? Kiss him until his lips are bruised? Maybe just gaze at him until everything else fades to the distance? – anything, whatever, he won’t have to be emotional. If Prompto would just  _ hurry  _ up.

“See ya, big guy.” He says and giving Noctis one more look, turns to Queen and hands the phone back. Prompto’s thumb draws circles over his skin and he nods at the silent question in the blue-violet eyes. He’s okay. He will be.

The clerk talks to Gladio over the phone, nodding to herself as if she can see him. “I understand, sir.”

She puts the phone down and looks back up at him, searching, and Noctis stares back, if not a little stubbornly, before she raises a hand to adjust her specs and nods to the guard. “It’s alright, King. Let them in.”

He’s not given a chance to frown at the weird names – maybe codes, aliases – before Prompto is thanking the clerk again and pulling him in after himself, slipping past the gates and into the open square of what had been the Crown City’s central plaza.

“You okay?” His companion asks, standing close, their shoulders pressed. He nods, turning just to tap his temple against Prompto’s.

“Yeah, just need to, um, just need—“He clears his throat loudly, trying to swallow down everything that was itching to tumble out. Not yet. 

Prompto’s fingers tighten around his. “Yeah, almost there. He’s been waiting for you, all this time.”

Shit.  _ Fuck. _ Prompto can’t just say things like that – just can’t blurt out words like that, words that could tap the skeins of his heart and the threads that circled around his hopes and dreams. Not when Noctis is this close to bursting, to blowing up with just so  _ much,  _ the things he had harbored inside for all these  _ decades _ just because he was afraid – afraid of stepping past the line that kept him from them, from Gladio. He had been fine – with being on the outside, always looking; been fine with counting up to ninety-nine because the hundredth was where he promised he’d take that chance, until the seconds he’s been counting turned to months and into years until he’s finally standing before the throne, the sands of the hourglass finally running out; he’s been fine with all that but now – now that he was here, now that he was back and his bestfriend’s heart was pulsing under the skin of his wrist, suddenly all those fears come rushing back.

The reality comes rushing back.

“What if—“Noctis starts, biting his lip. “What if he’s tired of waiting?”

Beyond, the remains of the destroyed plaza extends further. For Noctis, for all the memories that he retained, it had only been a few days ago – when he had stood here, wearing his father’s raiments, glaring up at the visage of a daemonic Astral, the other three behind him, always half a pace away. There had been pillars of flames – licking at the ground, singing the paint off the remaining buildings and setting the horizon afire. The Pyreburner’s sword had cleaved the crags on the once-even streets, his eyes taking in the damage still there, but what had been black and garish and molten to the touch had long decayed, turned to dust, weathered by time. Even the traces of frost, of Shiva’s chill of death rushing across the plaza to entrap Ifrit, the shards of his corporeal death shattering into smithereens as the Glacian gave him her final kiss—none of that remained. Time, as always, erased everything.

To him, it had been but a heartbeat ago no matter how much it feels like he was living someone else’s life. To the rest, to the man standing beside him, the tourists by the other side and to his Shield waiting – out there – for  _ him, _ it had  _ been _ a lifetime.

To him, it was a constant memory. To the new world, it was all a tapestry of a legend of a time long gone. Insomnia had become Solheim.

“Then he’s an idiot.” Prompto says, surely,  _ confidently,  _ and – when did that happen? When did their skittish, clumsy friend turn into someone independent and self-assured? How much had he  _ missed? _

Noctis breathes in through his mouth, looking beyond the plaza, to where the Citadel used to be. To where Gladio is. Prompto steps closer and runs a hand up his back.

“If it’s too much, if you don’t think you can handle it today,” He says, voice soft and even and  _ always _ so understanding. Fuck, he was really made for Ignis. They were peas in a pod, or something like that. “I’m not going to force you about it anymore. But…I didn’t believe it until you told me, until you reminded me of the things we shared, the things that I could only tell you and nobody else, not even them, and even then—I thought I’d gone crazy, you know? Maybe it was the grief – the pain – took eight years to do it and I’d broken apart over time. Maybe you had been what kept – me – all of us together and I started falling apart.”

No crying. Fuck, no crying. This was supposed to be a happy thing. They were supposed to be celebrating and dancing and singing and taking so many selfies. If Noctis can keep repeating it to himself enough, he can force himself to believe it.

A few tourists pass by them and Noctis turns his face away to hide against Prompto’s hair.

“But if you can bear it,” Prompto continues, looking at him with so much  _ fondness, _ “you should get it done. It’s best that he hears it from you – most of all and…and I think he’ll need to see it for himself, look at you and see it in your eyes that you forgive him.”

“For what?” Noctis asks, roughly. “For being stupid enough to let this get all mushy and feely in the first place, or for not just fucking  _ telling  _ me when we had so much time?”

“For not being able to save you,” the other says.

Noctis is glad that he’s looking intently at the stray blond hair so that Prompto can’t see his face, not when his hands are cold and his fingers are trembling at the idea – that permanent image in his head of Gladio not being able to forgive himself, not being able to move on as he held Noctis’ corpse, and how the hurt, the fucking  _ pain  _ isn’t easing up no matter how many times he tells himself, that Gladio needs to see it in him, hear it from him before he could take that step forward.

“Not his goddamn fault,” Noctis growls. Not his fault that the Astrals chose him to be their chess piece. Not his fault that he had been given this fate the moment he was born. Not his fault that Noctis chose to follow through on it because he needs to, in order to save the people he loves – Gladio – that he has to sit on that golden throne and feel his own father’s ghost stab him in the heart. It wasn’t Gladio’s fault, but the big guy can be just so  _ fucking  _ stupid, sometimes. Why did he have to fall in  _ fucking _ love with someone so stupid—

“Isn’t it?” Prompto asks and Noctis rears back, furious.

“ _ No,”  _ He almost shouts, hissing. “ _ Fuck. _ And—Prompto, what the fuck?”

Prompto’s—

He’s smiling.

Fucking  _ dick. _

“That’s what I mean,” Prompto says. “You need to go back to him. He needs to see that—and he needs  _ that _ from you. He’s never going to believe anyone else.”

“Fuck.” Noctis says, dropping his head against Prompto’s shoulder. “Promp—“

He begins, voice muffled, the trembling of his lip hidden in the collar of the other’s jacket. “You can’t go back to what you never had.”

The hand that lands on his shoulder is tight, enough to bruise. Prompto’s voice is serious. “Just because you didn’t have a name for it then doesn’t mean it wasn’t already there, buddy.”

And—

All those times, then—

If what Prompto said was true, if the other believed his own words as true—

All those times, the moments he and Gladio shared – those quiet afternoons, spent in half-slumber, where words trickled by the pace of the beating of their hearts, to the outside noise that tapped at the windows, to the molten amber gaze over the top of the book – 

To those small smiles in the middle of training – when Noctis finally learns how to warp, when he finally learns how to twist his body around the thin frame of a lance – that shine of  _ victory  _ in those eyes, the way the smile just grows so fucking proud, like Noctis put up the fucking sun—

The moment he had taken his first step out of his wheelchair, the moment he started taking those steps and even if both of his hands were on the wall to guide him, even when the sweat was pouring down his face at how  _ exhausting  _ it was to take four goddamn measly steps, even when the dumbfounded look of his father kept most of his attention, he’ll never forget Gladio’s eyes on him, holding himself back as Noctis almost tumbled when his knee gave out and Gladio had looked like he’d given  _ everything  _ he had to help Noctis back up but he can’t – because this was something Noctis had to do, for himself and by himself and when he managed to hold himself up, itching forward, determined – never surrendering – when the gold in those eyes shined  _ so _ bright,  _ so  _ proud—

In the quiet nights of their journey, the sky bright with the innumerable stars – Eos just one in a blanket of infinity – and the flap of their tent is open, light pouring in, the gold flecks in Gladio’s eyes turned to some dark ore, bright, even in the shadows as he turns to Noctis – always by his side, even in slumber – and Noctis would just look up at him, no words, breathing the same air, their hands close enough to touch but neither of them moves – the fragile, tenuous line of  _ something _ between them growing strained, at breaking point – until Gladio’s eyes flick down to his lips and—

If what Prompto says was true—then all along—

“It’s changed me, Promp,”Noctis says into his sleeve. “I really didn’t want to; it’s just—it’s fucked, Promp. It’s all  _ fucked _ , and I didn’t want it to change me but it did. I’m not. It’s in me, you know? It’ll always be in me.”

The fears – the nightmares – the sacrifices he’s had to make, stitched into the sleeve of his skin. He wasn’t the Noctis that they all knew – not anymore. They’ve lived on without him, he was a relic.

“It’s a part of you,” Prompto says, raising his hand to comb a stray hair from Noctis’ face. His eyes glance to the barcode still there on his friend’s wrist, at how the blond isn’t even bothering to cover it up now. The blue-violet gaze that meets his isn’t afraid and  _ shit,  _ he’s just so fucking  _ proud  _ of Prompto for becoming so strong that he wishes he could have a sliver of that strength, “but it’s not all you are. You once told me that.”

“It’s going to be,” he says so – a little too honestly. “Because it’s going to run through me and it’ll rot and fester and kill everything else.” Shit.

Prompto smiles slightly. “Maybe not at all. Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think, Noct.”

He snorts. “Maybe when garulas fly.”

Prompto pats his shoulder and he allows the other to pull him towards the Citadel, to the uncertain future. “Well, if a loser can call Astrals to kick his enemies’ butts, maybe garulas  _ can _ fly.”

He doesn’t know how, but Noctis musters a laugh that sounds like a bad mixture of choking and crying. Something. Some emotional monstrosity, he’s sure. “Fuck, damn it. Anybody ever tell you you’re too damn persistent for your own good?”

“Yup,” Prompto grins. “The guy I make out with.”

Noctis scowls and pretends to be disgusted, raising an arm to wipe at his eyes. “Sheesh, at least Ignis has told you.”

Prompto looks at him with far too much innocence. “Who says it’s Ignis?”

And Noctis chokes again, on fucking air.

And on how much he fucking loves his friends.

He may want to argue some more – try to prove Prompto wrong with all the justifications he’s kept under his chest, under heavy lock and key – but there’s also an urgency to their steps, and maybe, just maybe, he’s also a little bit excited.

Besides – with the reality of his life ahead and before him, in the veins under a barcode, in the scorching light of the fucking sun, he’s got all the time in the goddamn world to argue with Prompto now. All the time he could ever fucking want.

It was impossible to be ungrateful in the face of all that.

 

∞

 

The gratitude also kinda fades away somewhat when he furtively tries to delay the inevitable – just because Noctis can be anything but procrastination and delaying the important things make up, well, over a hundred percent of who he is – only for Prompto smile amusedly at him, the hold on his arm as tight as a karlabos’ pincer, and fucking manhandle him with a strength that shouldn’t belong to someone with a wiry frame like that.

They walk through an arch that doesn’t even look like it could handle a slightly-stronger breeze and, up there, to the steps leading up to the Citadel, only to find nothing. No tall building, no familiar spires – nothing remained of Noctis’ home. There’s a sinking in his chest, at the blue sky finally visible from the foot of the plaza, not hidden by twin towers or the light of the Crystal rising to project the Wall. Only the skeletal beams remain, cut short, as if the only testament to what had been a towering display of power. He swallows down whatever it is that’s crawling up his throat, and follows Prompto to the small building somewhere to the side, one that looked newer compared to the ruins around it.

It was a two-story building, the walls painted a dark grey – a remnant Insomnian design. Its windows were tall, the pavement fenced low around it, and the blinds were shut close. A lone man stood guard by the entrance, his clothes dark – black – and a greatsword strapped to his back, turning to look at them, curiously. It didn’t look like a commercial building – unlike the remains around it and, if Noctis’ memory was still as detailed and accurate as it was, this was built on what had been the royal apartments, housing the lords of the high council and—

He turns his head to Prompto so fast, his neck makes some noise that could have been  _ potentially  _ fatal. “Is this—“

Prompto looks at him for a moment, eyes blank before a light glows and before Noctis could even so much as decipher what the fuck that meant, the blond raised a hand and waved. “Hey, Auron!”

The man – Auron – nodded to Prompto, smiling at the blond, eyes curious as they turned to Noctis. The man’s long hair was kept in a tight braid which moved a bit when he turned. “Lord Argentum.”

“What is with everyone here not calling me by my actual name?” Prompto asks Noctis, who merely shrugged, staring at the building with a mixture of trepidation and excitement, his stomach suddenly deciding that housing killer bees was the newest thing ever. “I’m sure Gladio’s ecstatic you’re the one guarding him today. How many times has he told you that he doesn’t need to be watched over today?”

The corner of the guard’s lips tilt up. “Only ten times, sir.”

Prompto turns to Noctis, who had a questioning look on his face, and explains as the guard looks at them both. “Dave insists that the Grandmaster has a guard with him always, even though Gladio hates it to death. How is the big guy?”

The man blinked at the blond before turning slightly to the door. “Lord Amicitia’s as well as can be, sir. He did run out to the sepulcher just a moment ago, just got back in. He had a weird look on his face, though. Are you visiting, sir?”

Prompto shook his head, suddenly pushing Noctis forward. He did not appreciate that, at all. “Not me, siree, but my buddy is. He and Gladio go all the way back.  _ Way  _ back.”

The guard – a hunter, he assumes – turns to him, eyes raking over his form as if to assess him. “Ah, I see. You must have been one of Lord Amicitia’s companions during the long night. Are you, perhaps, a servant of the King of Light?”

Noctis guffaws. “King of what?”

The guard frowns. “King of Light. Eos’ savior. He who wears the ring to return the light to the world. The Lord of the Astrals and the Chosen King.”

He can’t help it, the suppositions too much for him. He bites out a chuckle. “Chewtoy of the Astrals, more like it.”

The guard’s face darken and he sneers. “How  _ dare _ you. You wouldn’t even be  _ standing  _ here if it weren’t for the King of Light.”

The sheer anger  _ stuns _ Noctis – who had not expected this, who had not thought much of the consequences of his own hand – and his face shows it all, as Prompto cuts in between the two of them. “O _ kay, _ buddy, try to lessen the jokes. Auron, my friend here hasn’t been around in a while. He’s pretty new to this stuff.”

Auron – the hunter – glares at him before evening his expression. “I apologize, Lord Argentum. I let my emotions get the better of me.”

Noctis – still reeling from the protective fury displayed by the guard – simply stands there as Prompto turns to him. “Well, anyway, I think I’m off. Hey, Auron, you don’t mind hanging with me at the Crow’s Nest down south?”

Noctis glares at the other, alarmed at the words. He opens his mouth to complain but the guard beats him to it. “I’m sorry, sir, but I have to stand guard—“

“C’mon, Auron,  _ please. _ ” And Prompto pulls out the puppy eyes and Noctis will never tell him how effective they are, especially when you’re out there surviving in an icy tundra and your almost-savior is holding a shotgun to your face, and if he can make Snow cave in then this Auron guy was  _ nothing _ —

And his claim is validated as Auron tries to look stern, only to sigh and drop his head. “Fine. Jecht will have my head for this.”

“I’ll make sure he does it painlessly.” Prompto chuckles, grabbing on to Auron’s arms and shining like the fucking charmer that he is, Auron sighing again as he resigns to his fate as the blond’s makeshift stuff toy. Then, Prompto turns to him and looks pointedly at him. “If I were you, I’d make sure to lock the door behind me before anyone else comes in – namely  _ me  _ – and gets an eyeful of hot but naked Grandmaster ass—“

“ _ Prompto! _ ” He growls, face bloody red as the guard blushes and doesn’t look at him in the face and Prompto’s chuckling and before he could even so much as throttle his best friend and dump him in a grave and, well, he’s not going to kill Prompto since he loves him to bits but he’ll make him  _ hurt _ and—

Suddenly his friend is four blocks away and waving at him, a resigned look on the guard’s face beside him. Prompto’s voice echoes as he shouts. “Go get him, champ!”

And—

Fucking gone.

Damn it.

Prompto can be such a slave-driver. That, or Noctis is a sucker. Or maybe it’s just…necessary. Maybe it just has to happen like this, as he looks at the door and the dark curtains closed shut over the windows, as if Gladio was hiding from the world. There’s something about that – about the fact that Noctis is standing outside the home of his Shield, built on the ruins of what had been  _ theirs,  _ surrounded by the silent ghosts of the pasts and the infinitely blue sky, slivers of clouds trailing at the edges. In a different time, this city had been everything he had known – the streets as familiar as the veins running up from wrist to elbow, as familiar as the sinews and the lines of his palm, to the shape of his nails and the strands of hair growing on his knuckles. In a different time, this had been the benchmark of all he had been – everything he knew, that made him who is,  _ was _ – the times he’s spent here, in the afternoons when school ends, Gladio and Ignis by his side as Prompto skips ahead of them, the times they’ve driven past this, the bright lamps of the streets casting shadows on their faces through the car windows, how it almost seems but a moment ago. Now, there’s rubble under his boot, there’s a collapsed building to the side, moss and grass growing in the shadows cast by the beams, covering it in a sheet of green. Now, a bird perches at the bent lamp, the metal covered in dirt and rusting all over, and its song echoes in the silence of a city that was never quiet, that never slept – to the spirits that remained in the spaces that the wind breezes through.

It’s funny, comedic, goddamn  _ humorous – _ funny like sickening, like throwing up, like bent over the toilet heaving your guts out – how his whole fucking chest, his fucking body, literally every cell and atom and molecule that made him who he is actually heats up as he starts on the walkway up to the front door. It’s not the house, either, is it? It’s not the walls that remind him of an older time; or the paint or the shingles, the steps, the fucking door. That’s not what makes it a sanctuary, not what has Noctis’ entire body itching to let go and tumble into, to push past that thin wood, to what’s waiting inside – that burning crevice that has him believing it was made for him.

The lights aren’t on in the front rooms – of-fucking-course they’re not on, the daylight is blinding in its intensity…or that, probably, nobody’s home. Except it’s not empty. He should just fucking leave—maybe, if, y’know, Prompto’ll not kill him if he actually does that.

Noctis supposes he could knock – that’s basic human courtesy, right? Practiced across all cultures and shows how intelligent you are? He guesses that it is, he’s not sure, he doesn’t really have control over the higher-plane functions of his brain. Not sure if he ever had control of those if it’s not a test paper in front of him. Or King’s Knight. Or something.

Maybe.

Or, he could step to the side of the walkway, to the small ledge of the right window where it juts out a bit and he puts his hand under it and feel for it because Gladio can be predictable at times and that, more than ever, is what makes him Gladio because being predictable is his own little way of  _ not  _ being predictable, waiting for the enemy to make the presuppositions only for Gladio to change the last minute because he’s just  _ that  _ smart and, if that falls in place, then there should be the—

Key under the ledge. The steel is suddenly fire-hot in his hand. Funny, his fingers don’t burn.

He slams the key into the knob – maybe a little too forcefully but who can blame him, he was literally a can of nerves right now – and he unlocks the door, boots squeaking slightly as he steps inside.

Worst-case scenario, he can always leave a note or some shit. Gladio’s always had one pinned to a corkboard near the front door of the Amicitia residence, because Gladio’s such a fucking loser; he can just—

There’s a sound, like a soft scuffle, from the down the hall that makes every fucking muscle and nerve in his body tense, like a plucked bowstring, like a the second before the bullet ejects when the trigger is pulled, like the tight grip he has on the handle of his sword, in the milliseconds before he concentrates, feels his body adjust to the sudden alteration of time and space around him—

“Prompto? Auron?” A voice calls out, gruff and raspy, and his knees tremble a bit.

Because it’s finally  _ real, _ it’s finally happening and he’s not imagining that voice, he’s not making up some daydream about it, he’s not whispering it to himself in the slithers of the wind as he tries to keep himself alive, breathing—the voice is echoing through the hall, around his ears and it  _ squeezes _ the light out of his heart and his throat runs dry, his lips freeze and he’s nothing but gasping and breathing and  _ alive. _

Remnants of a fire, low and barely-there – reminiscent of a different time, inside an abandoned Magitek carrier in an endless field of snow – in the hearth in what seems to be the living room, could be study room, could be a fucking basement for all he cares, because it’s casting flickers of light down the hall and across him, and the shadow at the edge of the doorframe—

Resolves into a sliver of steel sliced with gold.

Gladio steps smoothly out in the hallway, right arm crooked, hand gripping the hilt of a great sword – the great sword Regis entrusted to him, with which to protect Noctis – eyes flashing yellow and gold in the light, so intense and singular and  _ fierce, _ that Noctis’ breath quits halfway up his throat and just. Sorts of sticks there.

Gladio’s mouth falls open, his eyes widening.

And Noctis waits—

In that time between seconds—

Not even the width of the half of a second—

He waits for rage to take over the other’s features. He waits for disbelief to warp that surprised expression into one of pained, angry confusion. He waits for the blade of the great sword bear down on him like a raging behemoth, for the words of accusation and betrayal – the lies that once set them apart – for Gladio to mistake him for another illusion, another deception. He waits for the shaking of the head, the disbelief, unable to accept what’s there in front of him, that this was really Noctis, that his was no illusion, that no amount of falsehood or magic could ever cover up and twist his image into a blade that cut deeply into the hearts of the people he loves so fucking much, it hurts to breathe, to even think about it sometimes. He waits for all that, for anything but acceptance because it has been so long – so  _ fucking  _ long – the years had gone by so fast, so viciously and time was merciless, time did not wait, time was not kind to those that cannot remain, and it changed those that do remain, turn their hearts stonier, until all that’s left is a desolate ruin of what could have been, to the echoes of the past and Noctis will  _ fucking  _ understand. He’ll fucking understand and accept it, even if it  _ kills  _ him, even if it  _ rips _ the air out of him. Because he’s the only stagnant in a time that has jumped forward, and all he can do is hold on to the past as the forward disappears over the horizon. So, he waits—

In a breath—

In the sliver of a movement of his own pupil—

Noctis only has time to open his mouth – his ears only have the time to take note of the sound of steel hitting the floor – the mere tilt of his own lip, before the whole weight of who Gladio was hits him like a freight train—like a ton of fucking  _ bricks, _ like a mountain, an avalanche bearing on him, like a stranglehold—

It’s a damn good thing that he got his mouth open, actually, because he can just  _ barely _ hiss some air in around where Gladio’s fucking chest is digging into his throat, and – fuck, since when was Gladio so fucking prominent and gargantuan that—

Gladio says nothing – abso-fucking-lutely  _ nothing _ , and Noctis can’t fault him, can’t even bring up a thought to blame him; there’s nothing in his head, not a damn fucking thing worth speech. All the words he planned, the speeches and the adages, the fucking syllables he’s practiced in his head so many fucking times he knows them better than his own name, arranged and rearranged – inside and out and over – on the stupid fucking trains and the snow and the trucks and the transports, over the craggy hills and far away, the seas and the fucking goddamn desperate  _ hope _ that he was on his way home, they’ve all fled his lousy skull and escaped into the sunlight. It’s—everything, the scent of cedar and sandalwood and smoke, tattooed and branded into the skin under his nose, the fucking bear weight on him, leaving him gasping—it was just too much. It’s too  _ much, _ that Gladio’s arms around him are everything he kept sensing, kept feeling and guessing at the edges of those dreams – the snippets of what-if and could-have-been that hounded at the tails of his ebbing consciousness; everything he’d think of, vague-soft and tentative, fucking careful and tender and so  _ precious,  _ in the depths of the mudded fucking slush and snow and sand. It’s everything he would have hoped for, if he’d dared—everything he wanted to believe in, everything he bled to want to pray for, everything—

Too warm. Too much. Too long. Too fucking  _ perfect. _

And it’s just—

There’s no question—

No doubt—

As if Gladio had known that, one day, Noctis would walk through the doors of his own house, as if he’d been someone his Shield had been waiting for so long and he  _ had,  _ hadn’t he? For eight long years and the breath catches at Noctis’ throat as he wonders, wonders how much Gladio knows, how he knew the moment he laid his eyes on Noctis standing at the threshold like a specter and—just how? How was it—

_ I’ll always know you. _

He was right. Wasn’t he? Holy  _ fuck, _ he was goddamn  _ right, _ and Gladio feels it, too—

Gladio’s known it, known  _ him _ , from the moment – the second he woke up in the Ghorovas Rift, the second the pain seared into his brain as he registers the light the moment his eyelids retract, the moment air  _ draws _ into his lungs—

This shit’s not platonic and fanciful and—this shit hasn’t been everything he’s feared in a really long time. This is not a  _ good to see you, it’s been a while since we met, how have you been, buddy; _ this is—

This is  _ I can’t believe it, not after all this time, not when gods I no longer believe in abandoned you to the cold; _ this is _ you were gone and I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t fucking feel my own heart beating and everyone started to move on without you and I  _ can’t _ , I can’t move on without you, I’m nothing without you, and you’re gone forever, like the world can fucking ever let you go, like gone is something that can ever apply to you, like it’s something possible for you;  _ this is  _ I thought I’d never get to tell you all the things I hadn’t said, the things I’ve been so goddamn terrified to say, to broach the distance to you because I had let a stupid thing like fear paralyze me from voicing those words out, all the things I wanted to whisper to you over the lobe of your ear until you’ll be locked into me like your name fucking carved over my heart and the weight, oh my  _ gods,  _ the weight of them – the things I never got to say – they were crushing me, killing me and I can’t breathe, I can’t fucking breathe and the weight of it all was crushing me to death. _

Gladio takes a shuddering, soul-splitting breath, and Noctis can feel it in every fucking rib, all over each cell and pore of his body, and everything in him  _ resonates  _ with it like it was fucking born for it. The relief – the goddamn relief – is a tangible thing, like a physical layer of soft warmth laced with the heat, the fire and the  _ inferno, _ of Gladio’s heartbeat against his own damn fucking chest—like a blanket wrapped almost  _ too _ tight, and he could  _ collapse  _ here. Couldn’t he? He could crumble, and Gladio would pick him up off the floor, one broken piece at a time, and put him back together, the parts bleeding but matching up somehow, and kiss the cracks—

Gladio’s grip on him just keeps tightening, like he’s liable to disappear, to fade into the smoke and shadows, to escape through the spaces that made up the entirety of Noctis up, the spaces he couldn’t hold enough. He is liable to suffocate, in another minute. And it’s…fuck, it’s just terrifying. It’s fucking terrifying—the ragged, almost choking tremble on every exhale, the desperation in it. Gladio doesn’t  _ do  _ desperation; Gladio does survival instincts. Gladio does ingenuity. Gladio does predictably-unpredictable, and you never miss the gleam of a grin, or the second-fast slip of steel.

This Gladio is different. This is a different Gladio – far in contrast to the one he’s used to, the one he paints in the canvas of sleep. This is a Gladio who’s weakened and weakened, broken and desperate and straining under the mountainous weight. This is a Gladio that’s fallen apart.

And if  _ he  _ falls apart now, they’d both be fucked.

Noctis lifts his hand and pushes gently – far too heart _ breakingly  _ gently – at Gladio’s shoulder, to get him to release – impossible, maybe loosen, just enough, just a  _ sliver _ – his grip.

“Hey,” he says, voice  _ cracked.  _

Gladio draws back, almost painfully – almost impossibly – but doesn’t let go,  _ never  _ let go. He keeps his arms around Noctis’ shoulders for a second – a second that lasted an entire  _ eternity  _ – and then his fingertips flutter down, softly, immaculately, down Noctis’ arms, upwards to the edges of his neck beneath the collars of his shirt, almost—reverently,  _ worshipfully. _ In awe. In wonder. In fucking heartfelt prayer.

“You died.” He says, those gold eyes burning into Noctis, cutting far deeper than any Firaga spell ever could.

“I did.” Noctis answers, the words breathed against the almost  _ non _ existent space between them.

Gladio just looks at him, the gold flecks in his eyes  _ shining.  _ Unblinking, unwavering,  _ indomitable _ – hot-dark eyes and the slow curl of a deadly,  _ devastating _ smile, and this is everything Noctis ever fucking flirted with and wanted, in the darkest crevices and recesses of his guilty and disbelieving mind, and holy  _ shit,  _ it’s too much to take. Blood rushes to his face, adrenaline runs to his brain, and gods,  _ gods, _ he’s so…alive. He’s so fucking  _ alive _ that the realization  _ finally  _ sinks in and he gasps aloud.

There’s a desert in his throat, a fucking planet really, and he swallows. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“A Shield’s duty ends with his King’s death.” Gladio says, his hold on Noctis tight, eyes  _ un _ believably soft.

The weirdness – the discomfit, the dissonance – of the line is a contrast to the usual directness that Gladio was. Noctis hates it when he gets like this. Maybe. No. “What the fuck about it?”

“You are no longer my king.” Gladio repeats.

Endless riddles and confusing lines were not Gladio’s pastimes but he plays it like a fucking champion. Noctis narrows his eyes. “So, what ab—“

Gladio’s hands—large, warm, could fucking shield Noctis’ entire face with it—rise to cup his face  _ so _ fucking gently, so fucking  _ tenderly,  _ like he’s irreplaceable and important and then—

His mouth—

On Noctis’—

It’s every single thing he was stupid, so fucking  _ idiotic, _ enough to hope for, to dream of, to outline in his imagination—and he never  _ should  _ have; it’s like he made this moment possible by dignifying it with the content of his thoughts, the contents locked under the cavities that kept his heart beating, into the marrows of his bones and the tracks of his lungs, and this wasn’t—

He was—

What he was—he wanted, he resolved, he fought for—is curling into flakes of ash and smoke, like the scraps of parchment and the blocks of wood held to a poorly made fire, burning bright and red and golden against the eternal white, catching and roaring, the tendrils of warmth rising like the hope bridging past the snow—

What he  _ was _ holds  _ nothing _ against what he is right  _ now. _

He  _ is— _

Engulfed, enflamed, encompassed—the heat runs through him, past him, skittering and dancing and slaving down widening veins and igniting through the gasped-in breath, suffusing his skin, filling every centimeter of his being—

He  _ is— _

Demolished, destroyed, dominated—the inferno explodes from beneath his skin, an eruption bursting through the veins and his fucking  _ soul  _ catches fire, engulfing him in a torrent of bright, burning, bellowing light like every particle of his being was gasoline set aflame—

He  _ is— _

Resurrected, recreated, reborn—every bone, every atom, every helix strand in his fucking body is split apart in a molten explosion, the synapses torn at their fucking edges, the phantasmal blast of  _ purity  _ reforming the blocks and the debris, crisscrossing over into something new, something  _ good,  _ something bright—

Gladio’s mouth fits against his so fucking  _ perfectly  _ that it should be a crime, a fucking  _ injustice— _ it is, it damn is and they should lock him up, put him in  _ chains,  _ and bind him for what he’s doing with his goddamn  _ tongue— _

And if Noctis had enough control – if some tangible, physical part of him still even  _ exists  _ at this point – he’d realize it’s not even just the tongue; it’s the whole fucking thing—the press of his lips, the graze of his teeth; the nudge of his nose against Noctis’ cheekbone; shouldn’t that be weird and suffocating? The pad of his thumb smoothing down along Noctis’ jaw; the warmth of his chest pinning Noctis’ arm in between them, closer and closer, like he doesn’t even care, like he doesn’t even have half a mind to care that the spaces between them exist only in the frissons of their ghosts, like—

Is it always like this? Is kissing always a—not a mere pull, or a measly push but a fucking maelstrom of gravity upturned in compressed time and space? A rip, a tear, the entire fabric of what’s real torn in two—an envelopment; oscillate and fluctuate, nip and give and twine and take and a fucking bulette-weight of something starkly and distinctly alcoholic and addictive and adulatory; a fucking benediction and a godsend and a painless  _ surrender _ ?

Gladio draws back, panting softly, and stares at Noctis for a long second, a fucking forever of a second—and there’s something damn urgent in the depths of gold and whiskey, swimming between amber and orange—before he presses their foreheads together. Both his hands lift, and one flattens itself along each side of Noctis’ neck and wraps his fingers around his fucking heart.

He closes his eyes, and Noctis watches the lashes flicker down, casting the long shadows on the bruise-colored circles beneath them.

Gladio swallows. This close, it’s loud enough to hear – loud enough to  _ feel. _

“I couldn’t believe it,” he says softly. “I couldn’t let myself believe it—when I saw you there, cold and lifeless and everything I failed to protect. Because if I did, somehow—I couldn’t  _ breathe. _ Not even for a second. Even if it took me forever. I knew, somewhere, deep down, that I had to keep not believing.” His eyelids rise, and there’s a liquid gleam in the darkness. “And you’re back.”

Noctis’ throat is dry. So is his mouth. His soul has long past left his body. Fuck. His tongue swipes over his lip, at the numbness in them. “You can’t get rid of me that fucking easily.”

“No,” Gladio says, thumbs on Noctis’ cheeks like a touch of worship. “Never.” He guides Noctis’ hair back—gently, softly—with just his fingertips. “Never again.”

And—

Noctis—

He can’t—

He just  _ can’t. _

He just can’t be fucking serious.

He can’t go around saying shit like that, like it’s allowed, like it’s fucking permissible. There should be something new, some fucking law about that.

“There’s—“His throat is frozen, he tastes glass when he clears it. “There’s a lot of—“His hand curls itself into Gladio’s shirtfront, right over his heart, over the scar he knows is there. “There’s a lot of ugly underneath.”

“That,” Gladio says, whispers – his fucking smile is an absolution finally  _ within _ Noctis’ reach. “I don’t believe for a second.”

Noctis manages to tilt one right back at him, like he’s forgiven, he’s fucking  _ free. _ “Maybe you should bite the edges to be sure.”

The flare of fucking  _ heat, _ the brightness gleaming in those gold eyes that can put a million suns to shame, could cow down infernal flames, makes Noctis’ guts tighten up until he feels the force of it, the entirety of it, trembling out through the tips of his fingertips and his being—how is that even possible?

He’s leaning up, and Gladio is leaning down, and  _ gods,  _ it was just—it was fucking inevitable, unavoidable, inescapable; it’s gravity and magnetics and physics and equal and opposite forces; and he’d be stupid to try to pick a fight with fucking gravity.

Gladio’s mouth seals over his again, returning, refolding, like it’s fucking home, like it’s one more fucking piece of the puzzle hidden under the shards and the nails and the bloody chains and it’s finally back, finally inside him again, and if this is the point—the warmth and the safety and the all-over-tingles of pleasure coalescing into thicker lines like lightning, ice and fire, creasing through his skin, emblazoned against his bones and withered into the compartments of his soul—if the infinite, suffocating, heaviness of how fucking  _ safe,  _ how fucking  _ wanted,  _ how fucking  _ needed  _ he was, the beginnings of who he was - is - melding into a miasma with the ends of Gladio—if this is what people are looking for—

Then, it makes all the fucking sense in the world.

He just wants  _ more;  _ he just wants to melt right into this, dissolve—deliquesce and evanesce; he was – is – iced over, frozen through, glacial sheets around him like an irremovable blanket but Gladio’s skin  _ thaws  _ him down to the blood and bones everywhere it touches his, everywhere they bridge the endless space of the universe, the crevices and crags and holes in time and space and  _ meet  _ and—

Except—

Wait—

_ Wait. _

He twists away, turns just far enough for him to look Gladio in the face—the asshole’s mouth is so fucking  _ red _ , red and kind of swollen and shiny-wet; his eyes are huge, and his expression settles somewhere between curiosity and just fucking smug satisfaction.

Noctis tries for words, scavenges whatever is left of the wasteland of his mind to scrounge up the remaining syllables. “Th—” His voice is fucking split down to the core. No matter how many times he clears it and tries again. “That’s not. This isn’t. It’s not supposed to be like this.”

Gladio’s eyes are completely fucking  _ open,  _ cavernous and wide and just so fucking  _ vulnerable.  _ Open and endlessly and infinitely deep, like the whole fucking universe is laid out—tunnels full of white and gold stars and what else is floating back, gazing back at him other than Noctis’ fucking own reflection?

“How was it supposed to be?” he asks, in the low-honey voice, and Noctis could  _ kill _ him for being so fucking gorgeous and perfect and just so fucking  _ stupid.  _

“I was gonna—“ Noctis’ voice quavers again, trembles like the fading ice in his veins and he swallows, his hand playing at the braid of Gladio’s fucking long hair—he has a fucking _ braid. _ “I was gonna walk in here. Alive. Tell you I’m back and that—that this. Us. It  _ can’t. _ Not gonna happen. ‘Cause—“

There are dragon claws down his throat, his vocal chords shot, and voice broken and raspy.

“’Cause what I feel, what I  _ fucking _ feel for you is—“ He says, breaks it through the walls of his lips into the open where gold-lit eyes are relentless. “What I feel for you isn’t something short, something in the moment. There’s just  _ so  _ much in here, so fucking much that breathing is a chore,  _ existing  _ is a chore, not when—not when you’re the only reason I’m standing, that I’m breathing and it fucking  _ hurts,  _ like a gunshot wound over and over and the bullet won’t leave, won’t stop bursting through my lungs. What I feel is what kept me standing, trudging through a fucking blizzard and into the barrel of a gun and I had to – I had to keep going, had to keep walking forward just so I can see you, I can hear your voice because it’s the only thing that’s keeping me whole and intact – the only thing that—“

Shit. It shouldn’t be this hard, right?

Letting someone go? 

Letting them float and fly to the heavens while he hurtles to the ground, rushing until he explodes into a million crimson spatters on the cold, barren soil?

“And now that I know—that I fucking know you’re alive, you’re  _ okay,  _ and that you’re standing tall, I know. I’ll fucking finally know that it was all worth it, that climbing those g-goddamn stairs was worth it because—fuck, I did this for you, okay?”

And there’s not so much as a wobble as there is a whirlwind in his throat.

“So, you have to let me go!” He grits his teeth so hard it jars in his head. His lips bleed, and his entire body pours out like a vacuous heart of blood. “You have to push me out of the fucking door because I  _ can’t.  _ I can’t, I’m not strong enough to let you go so  _ you _ have to let  _ me _ go and  _ go.  _ I’ll be here, I’ll  _ always  _ be here but you have to go. Just go and keep forward and m-move because what you feel for me can’t exist, because  _ I  _ don’t exist anymore. I’m no good, I’m nothing now. Please, let me  _ go. _ ”

And there it is – the truth of the matter, the crux of the hurt. His time had gone, and he was nothing but an outdated relic, obscuring the path to the future. He was nothing but a reminder of past suffering and hurt and pain and so much darkness. They shouldn’t have to go through that again. Gladio shouldn’t have to go through that again.

“Because you deserve something bette—“

Gladio is kissing him again, and he chokes on the strangling tightness in his throat, but he can’t stop, and he doesn’t  _ care.  _ The lips on his, warm and hot and searing taste of ash and soot and  _ rebirth  _ just burning everything that made him who he was, purifying him, like a phoenix reborn from the ashes.

“You are,” Gladio says, softly, the edges of his lips slipping past his for a mirror of a second of a half, “all of me.”

Noctis wrangles his voice, more or less, in a sliver of a faint idea of control. “Wh—What?”

“You  _ are _ ,” Gladio repeats, the whisper replacing all that made Noctis who he was. “every part of me, every little thing that I call mine. No part of me, not a single thing – from my heart to my soul – does not belong to you. You just don’t own me, own every drop of blood, every strand. The entirety of who you are is what makes me  _ me. _ ”

Noctis can’t look at him, at the fiery  _ truth _ in those eyes. Gladio’s damp mouth brushes across his cheekbones, then higher—grazing over the deep,  _ deep,  _ dug-in circles underscoring Noctis’ eyes. “It changed you, wore you down and broke every part of your body, your dignity and your pride but it didn’t break  _ you.” _

The breath fanning against his cheek is warm, alive and it turns his vision blurry.

“It’ll never break you, it’ll never kill you and it’ll never leave you into nothing. Because every moment, for every second you’re alive, so am I. You are what makes everything in me tick and run and beat. From the moment I first saw you, the moment I knew you, the moment I was born – I was born for you. I knew it then and I know it now and I know you like I know what’s inside my own heart, Noct. The moment I laid my eyes on you, you taught me that there was nothing more important, more vital, and more  _ integral _ to who I am than you.”

“I didn’t teach you shit, Gladio.” He says, back, because the words are searing the wounds shut, the painful lesions now relieved, the chains biting into the skin of his being unraveling with each syllable.

“Yes, you did,” Gladio says, and he’s kissing all over Noctis’ fucking face now, feather-light, soft – tender, fragile – and Noctis  _ hates _ him; he’s such a fucking asshole; what right does he have to offer Noctis’ damaged and broken-down ass fucking soul all this stupid fucking affection, this commitment, this dedication— “From day one, Noct. And every day since. This isn’t going to break you. You can’t tell me what I feel for you isn’t justified and isn’t right – when everything  _ I  _ do feel for you is just you. You are  _ all  _ of me. Not a single, tiny part of me doesn’t have your name branded on, owned, from the first second I was alive. I surrendered myself to you the moment I met you, without a doubt. I did not regret it then, I do not regret it now and I will never regret it. You’re everything that keeps me holding on, holding strong. You are  _ all _ of me.” 

Noctis wants to lean forward to bury his face into the asshole’s chest — to press his nose against the wide pectorals and breathe in the scent of cedar and sandalwood until it’s ingrained into every curve of his brain, like it was made to be there — but the  _ perfect  _ bastard won’t let him duck his head. “I can’t—”

“You can,” Gladio says. “You  _ are _ so much more. You have so  _ much _ more left to offer. Noct, you are the best part of me and every part of me and that’s barely a wisp of what you still have to you. No matter how long it’s been, no matter how many years pass by, you’re still the best thing in this entire world and not a part of you isn’t precious, isn’t vital and isn’t a goddamn miracle to me.”

Noctis wracks his brain for something dry to say but what escapes is something that sounds a little like a laugh.

“Noctis,” Gladio says, and fuck, it sounds like every verse of a damn holy book, like a prayer, like everything that was bright and good and beautiful in the world. “I’ve failed you so many times, and you have  _ never  _ given up on me. Please, don’t give up on yourself.”

He closes his eyes, wanting to claw his own heart out until it stops fucking jumping at every treble of Gladio’s voice. “No, no, no. You haven’t — not even once—”

“I have,” Gladio says, voice pained but honest and Noctis gasps at the prominence of Gladio’s collarbones against his lips. “I have. I’ve failed you so many times, failed to protect you and your family, everything that was yours by right and blood; you sacrificed yourself to save the entire world and I can’t even protect you from a tiny part of it. If you think I’m forgiven and that I still have so much to live for, just look out to the world outside and know that everything here is because of you.”

Noctis looks up into his eyes, into those eyes that are shining with repentance and desperation and just so much goddamn  _ fondness  _ for him and did he deserve even a splinter of that? Did he even deserve to  _ see _ all of that? “But—”

“Noctis,” Gladio says again, and that word - his name, the center of who he is - resonates and reverberates and resounds through him like aftershocks, like tremors and like waves from an earthquake, a tsunami — like soundwaves and echoes from an aria bursting at the fragile gold cages; and the curled, compressed heat of it unfurls and unravels right through him.

And he can’t—

He doesn’t think there will come a time where the sound of his own name from Gladio’s lips won’t leave the scars of a wondrous explosion on his skin, won’t leave the patches of his skin untouched as the lips are traced against his temple and over his heart and deep into his skin that he might as well have been made with nothing more than the touches and kisses of this gorgeous, perfect, heartbreakingly  _ beautiful  _ man—

“I love you.”

The three words sink into his consciousness, drive themselves into his veins and over his eyes, into his mouth and out of his skin. Gladio’s gaze on him is unyielding - steadfast and resolute - and the gold cuts through the core of his being, splits him in two and they explode, annihilate one another, until all the strands that bound him together come apart, deconstruct, returning him to the base of zero and—

His eyes widen, his hands stilling as they go along either side of Gladio’s jaw.

Noctis—

—stares at him—

—and waits for the universe - and the entirety of all reality - to stop buckling and distorting and contorting at impossible angles and near-limitless speed and settle back into a recognizable configuration.

He is not making this up.

Noctis didn’t make  _ any  _ of this up.

Gladio — Gladiolus fucking Amicitia - Sword-sworn and Shield of the King, a man who looks like  _ that,  _ a man who could weather all storms and cow down any tempest, a man who could break chains with his bare hands and read with the eloquence of a goddamn poet— is looking at  _ him  _ like he’s the one who’s some kind of marvel, some miracle fallen from the heavens, like he’s the fucking future.

Fuck him.

Fuck him — fuck his perfection and his talented fucking mouth and his experience and his goddamn perfectly beautiful eyes and his gentle fucking hands and all of it—

Fuck him, and fuck the fucking  _ rightness  _ surging up from the depths of the darkest, softest, safest places in Noctis’ stupid fucking soul— searing hot, exploding and tunneling into a billow of fire and heat, upward and onwards, through him, molting and searing and seething under his skin, prickling everywhere as his guts drop and his heart crumples like broken glass, carrying into the wind above the clouds of the sky.

All this shit, these last few days - weeks, years - he thought that it had been nothing more than  _ survival.  _ That maybe it had all been nothing but surviving, no advanced fucking intellect, no overarching cause and effect, no contemplation and introspection. Just instinct, and spitting out the blood and crawling as far as life would take him. Just breathing and gasping and trudging through the goddamn snow and begging before the circle of a gun and chasing after one chance and the next and the next. Just sinking as low as he fucking had to in order to stay alive. Primal, biological shit. Instinct and reflex and reaction. Nothing human about it — about him.

It’s so fucking warm here. All he wants is never to be cold again.

He breathes in slow, then lets it out even slower. Gladio’s eyes do not change, up to him for absolution.

And suddenly—

The asshole’s words make sense, they make sense and they coalesce and form into order and harmony, and each struggling,  _ broken  _ piece that had been Noctis swirled up to right themselves on the board, like a step forward, like a catapult forward, into the light of the sun - eternal and bright—

All this time, he had been afraid that it had been for nothing. That it had been just pure luck and chance and coincidence that kept him alive - that there had been no light at the end of the tunnel, that all the fears that he’s kept under lock and key had escaped through the thin cracks and caught him in their spell, pushing him into the box, bones broken, limbs torn, a scream locked in his throat—

His fingertips ghost down the side of Gladio’s cheek, to trace the scar - the one that runs down from forehead to jaw, over his left eye - the first one, the mark of his loyalty and fealty, for  _ him  _ and nobody else — lightly, still, like the air between them has become fragile, tentative, web-like and the sound of someone’s breath could shatter it all.

The incomprehensibly large, sticky, spiky, strangling thing in his throat seems to be his heart, or what remains of it - after the explosion, when it finally burst at the seams from all the warmth and the heat and the unending, undulating  _ rightness  _ that surged with just three  _ simple  _ words—

That can’t be fucking healthy.

That can’t be  _ fucking  _ healthy.

There’s no reality where that will  _ ever  _ be healthy.

And when his lips open, to blurt out every denial, every justification for ending, to revive and resuscitate and restart the fears that had  _ dissipated  _ at those words—

All that comes out—

Out of the battered-patches of his skin and the aches in his joints and the bone-crushing desperation and hopelessness, the blood dry on his lips and on his skin and in his veins, the snow and the dirt dried and coagulated in his hair, down his throat and over his hands, in every nuance of who he was, the caverns and the skeins of his dreams and his  _ fragile  _ hope and his fucking heart—

Through the steam and the fire and light is just—

“I love you, too.”

Gladio—

— smiles.

Faintly, tentatively, in a wobbly kind of way - in a dazed manner as if he had been dreaming and this is the first taste of reality, the moment between slumber and consciousness - but it’s real, it’s genuine and it’s there. It’s there and it ignites and re-ignites everything in him, the minute hands ticking faster and slower and  _ still  _ and just—

The weight on him eases and Noctis realizes he’s been pushed against the door, their chests against one another, and that he was the one holding Gladio up – maybe for the first time, for the first time in his fucking life he’s the one who’s strong _ er,  _ who’s holding the other, pushing him up a fucking pedestal because he’s always been there, all this time – his arms on the other’s shoulder as the man finds leverage on either side of his head, foreheads pressed, dazed - liquid - gold eyes looking, boring into his. Like he’s the finest dream there is and Noctis reaches up, touches the gold skin splattered with every skein of his heart, the very beatings of this fucking mass of muscle in his chest engraved and emblazoned and embedded into the nocturne-ink of his tattoo.

“I’m sorry,” He says – sorry – as if he hadn’t brought Noctis out of the deepest, darkest pits of hopelessness, as if he hadn’t pierced back each open wound, undone all the sutures to kiss the skin back into perfection, as if he hadn’t breathed life back into Noctis, and the amber-gold eyes blink, gleaming brightly, wetly, in the darkness. “I still forget how absolutely fucking extraordinary you are.”

Gladio is awful close now. And the really awful - not actually - thing is that it’s not awful at all.

And before he could just tell Gladio how completely awful that was, the perfect asshole threads his fingers into Noctis’ hair, in between the wood and his skin and starts kissing him again, and that—sort of, makes up for it. For now. 

Forever.

Gladio obviously knows how to do this shit — obviously Noctis had been sort of realizing that, of course, but it’s becoming increasingly clear that he’s good at the whole process, not just the mere touch of their lips, the tangle of tongue. He slides one hand down over Noctis’ shoulder and then down and around to cup, to hold his hip with it and he keeps the other hand kneading at Noctis’ scalp, using the leverage - the momentum - the distraction to start drawing Gladio slowly down the hall towards - well, wherever it is that they’re going. To the ends of the world, down the deepest trenches of the oceans, past the meadows into a bright oblivion. Or just the fucking living room.

“You’re thinking,” Gladio whispers, murmurs, against his lips.

Noctis pulls back, just enough to grin, and it’s fucking true, hope _ ful  _ and everything he’s weak enough to admit. “Yeah, I do. Should try it sometime.”

“I’d hate for you to be thinking,” Gladio says, scraping his nails up the back of Noctis’ head so smoothly and effortlessly like it’s a fucking massage, “when you could be feeling instead.” He reaches forward and presses his mouth over Noctis’ once more, and Noctis has to hold back, grip the man’s shoulders tight, as the kiss sears every desperate sound out of his throat. His fingers tangle over Gladio’s shoulders, up to the back of his neck until he feels the compact braid in his fingers.

He tugs on it gently — Gladio releasing him to look him in the eye and, fuck, it’s such a good thing that there are arms around him, holding him up, because he doesn’t think he can even remember motor functions at this time. 

Noctis tugs at the braid, gently. “May I?”

“As you wish, my  _ king, _ ” and shit. Gladio shouldn’t - he’s not allowed to say it like that, like it’s a fucking prayer, a divine verse, a fucking sex act, because there is nothing,  _ nothing  _ that is stopping his heart from fucking pounding too-fast and too-light in his chest—

“‘m not a king,” Noctis responds. Weakly. Timidly. His breath has gone, sucked into the redness of Gladio’s fucking lip and the searing heat in those whiskey-gold eyes.

A smile tilts at the corner of his lips and Noctis’ eyelids shut, close, of their own will as Gladio takes his lips again, rearing back to whisper. “How about ‘my love’?”

Well—

If the sound of his heart - probably his sixth or seventh one, at this point - jumping off the cliffs of the Ravatogh—

If the whine crawling up his throat and out of the kiss-bruised lips, slipping past the scruff of Gladio’s chin—

If the fingers threading through the long hair, releasing it from their bonds, until they unfurl over him and Gladio like a sheer blanket—

If the cry of each hope, each fragment of faith reborn and renewed, merging into a searing light inside him—

Well, maybe if Gladio’s so fucking experienced and perfect, he already knows that, and he’ll understand.

Meanwhile, in the meantime,  _ on the other hand, _ and a million other similarly sounding clauses that he can’t be bothered to name, the perfect, gorgeous asshole gets this fucking beatific look on his face as Noctis pulls the elastic away and his hair spiral out of their braid in a tumble of curly brown.

“You’re gonna regret that when you start getting it in your mouth,” Noctis says.

“No,” Gladio says blissfully, “I’m not.”

They’re just sort of — hovering in the doorway to the living room, it seems, while Noctis reaches up to tease his fingers through every fucking inch of Gladio’s hair, and the firelight dances and shivers on the side of the dumbass’ face. The angles of it look sharper with the shadows licking them, painting them, like that— deeper, starker, and clearer. If the look in the other’s eyes isn’t something damn good, something that makes his chest drum, Noctis would probably...something. Probably something. Say something. Do something.  _ Overthink  _ something. Anything except just standing here sort of sagging against the doorframe, as the little rhythmic tugs draw the beautiful fucking tingles and kinks out of every single centimeter of Gladio’s hair, the frissons of hair short-circuiting every fucking nerve in his body and making him just sort of...tremulous all over.

“I think you like that,” Gladio says, voice smug like a fucking dog with the ball in his jaw.

“Almost as much as you obviously do.” Noctis bites back — which is the pinnacle of his intelligence at the moment, considering.

Gladio...laughs.

And somehow, somehow, some-fucking-how, that — changes everything. Somehow, that shakes out the worst knot of tension, the lines crossed with strain, in Noctis’ chest, and— well, shit, sure, he has no fucking clue what he’s supposed to do, but this is  _ Gladio,  _ after all. Dumbass, dorky fucking Gladio, who’s hot and gorgeous and perfect and twice as smart and poetic and eloquent and, just, so goddamn nice underneath it all. This is Gladio, who  _ wants  _ this — and wants him to want it. Wants him to  _ like  _ it, and feel good, and…

Loves him.

Fucking, actually loves him.

As in, die-for-you actually loves him. As in, strawberry cake and heart-shaped chocolates and blue sylleblossoms in bouquets actually loves him. As in, reads to you classic love stories, romances on paperback, watches you sleep with a smile on his fucking face and traces your hair back from your face, kinda actually loves him. As in, stares deep into your eyes as a fire glows nearby and smiles and closes them in a purr, in goddamn delight as you comb your fingers through his hair, kinda actually loves him.

This is Gladio, who  _ loves  _ him.

He’s safe here.

There’s no snow pooling at the corners of his visions.

There’s no dead Magitek trooper with a sword stabbed to its chest in the exact same way his own father did to him in the shadows of the light.

There’s no barrel of a gun pressed against his nose and the crippling fear of his brains blown out like a red flower.

There’s no echo of his own screams, of calling for help against the merciless winter breeze, only the sound of his terror resounding back.

There’s no crawling, no staggering, no drudging forward through the endless what-ifs and could-have-beens, through the fears and the hopelessness, through every fucking thing that had gone wrong in his life just to get him to  _ here. _

It’s just Gladio.

Who looks at him like he placed the sun in the sky—

Who looks at him like Noctis is the best part of him—

Who looks at him like he’s every dream, the best dream, come to life—

Who looks at him like he’s spent his entire life in the dark and Noctis was the light at the end of a seemingly-infinite tunnel—

Who looks at him like that and all of the above and would never stop looking at him like that until Noctis finally,  _ finally  _ starts believing—

He’s safe here.

He’s finally,  _ finally  _ fucking safe.

It doesn’t fucking matter what he does or doesn’t know; doesn’t fucking matter if he’s vulnerable this way — if he’s offering up more than Gladio really realizes yet. It doesn’t fucking matter if he’s scared.

So, Noctis coughs up a few more words outside the fucking  _ goodness  _ that he feels. “So, are we gonna do something or am I just gonna pet you all night like a damn dog?”

The man lolls his tongue out and makes a ‘woof’ sound - it’s an image that shouldn’t make Noctis feel so fucking  _ fond.  _ He still does, though. Feels  _ fucking  _ fond, that is.

“I’d rather go with a behemoth.” He says, receives a grin in return from the older man.

“You could pet them, too.” Gladio says.

“Nah, guess I’ll have to settle with you.” He retorts.

And the  _ look  _ Gladio gives him—

Fuck, fuck,  _ shit,  _ this is too much already; his heart’s too big and too flighty and too violent for his ribcage, and his mouth just went so fucking dry that the breath he exhales is coming directly from the second Longwythe valley – a fucking adamantoise turtle - in his throat.

“You have an interesting idea of what ‘settle’ means,” Gladio says.

Noctis’ brain is—

—somewhere near the front door, probably ten feet away. Probably.

“You have an interesting  _ face, _ ” he says. Intelligently. Smartly. Actually.

The answering, beaming grin on Gladio’s face makes the constant, permanent cardiac problems in his chest cavity significantly worse. Or better. Or both.

“I would say ‘likewise’,” Gladio says, “but that would be a cruel understatement.”

Noctis frowns, screwing his nose at the other. “Jeez, you need to work on your lines, man.”

“I suppose I do,” Gladio says, flattening one hand on Noctis’ shoulder-blade and curling the other around the curve of his jaw - it fucking trembles at his touch, the weirdness of having someone else’s hand on your face; it’s like electricity at every touch of their skin and — “I could practice on you. Forever.”

At any other time, Noctis would have rolled his eyes and pretended to barf - well, if only he was not so busy trying to remember how to fucking  _ breathe.  _ Again. “You’re gonna have to, with the rate you’re goin’.”

Gladio, gold eyes melting into thin slits, leans in close enough to sigh so fucking softly, so preciously against his mouth — just a hot brush of air, and Noctis can  _ almost  _ taste his lips; he starts to shift forward to chase them, run after - because isn’t that what he’s been doing all this time, to get from then to here and here to this?

There’s movement, going backwards, light on the balls of Noctis’ feet, and does Gladio actually think that Noctis is just going to waltz into him, with the perpetual limp of his thanks to that Marilith attack—

Except the damn perfect, gorgeous asshole slides both his palms down Noctis’ arm, and then starts to tug gently, and it’s not a decision Noctis is presently intelligent and sentient enough to make, drawn into the room, across the rug and over towards the fire.

The licks of the flame, ribbons of flickering heat bathes and inundates them both, from head to toe, pulling at the seams of Noctis’ ends — pulling him close like there’s a cord, an invisible and unbreakable wire between Gladio’s chest and his; like they’re meant to meet, and the timing, the match, was inevitable. He curls his hand in Gladio’s shirtfront, the black material jumbling in his fist, and the way the golden eyes on him darken as he looks down through his lashes just like—

Noctis grabs onto the shirt closer, for some leverage, some fucking balance—anything to keep himself from drifting off and away, sailing into the soft-warm oblivion waiting in between the cushioned floors and the embers painting swaths of vermillion against his skin and around their edges. His hand, fumbling distractedly while he tries to watch the slow rise of Gladio’s lashes, finds a thin chain that he hadn’t noticed before.

Twin chains - twisted up together, almost tangled in a clever web of lines. A dog tag dangles from each.

‘Gladiolus Amicitia’ is reflected on the front of one, and the other—

Noctis reads his own name.

The asshole. The dumbass. The little, big  _ shit.  _ The absolute  _ fucking _ —

“You don’t need this anymore,” Noctis growls out, through the glass shards in his throat present once more, before it could stop him, fighting to free the tag with the name ‘Noctis Lucis Caelum XIV’ glinting in amber light.

A larger hand closes around his to still it, then draws both chains off over Gladio’s head. The chains don’t even catch themselves on his hair. Noctis hates him, eyes following the movement of the chains as they’re set on the surface of the nearest table, the metal clicking on the wood.

“I suppose I don’t,” Gladio says - smile heartbreakingly bright and oh, so soft. “Not anymore.”

Noctis tries to smile, so fucking hard, and he can see in Gladio’s reciprocation that the asshole knows - and appreciates the effort even if it’s stuck in his throat, more or less.

And then the silence—

— changes.

Gladio’s smile curves on the right side first — lopsided, uneven, fucking adorable and hot and beautiful as shit; and that’s not even fair—

“My love,” he says and Noctis gasps, the adulation crackling through his veins, before Gladio is rubbing and nudging his nose up against Noctis’ temple like a goddamn dog or something, and that’s too fucking much.

Noctis grabs Gladio’s shirt and hauls him in and down — maybe harder, stronger than he should’ve, since their teeth kinda knock together, and then Gladio possibly-accidentally-purposely-probably biting down on Noctis’ lip hard enough that he hears himself make a faint sort of gasping, ragged, kind of noise.

An answering sound — choked, suffocated, thick and  _ deep _ , edged with a growl that permeated his dreams and punches his reality — escapes from the back of Gladio’s throat, and then his tongue grazes the roof of Noctis’ mouth again, and several fingers curl into the man’s chaotically beautifully disastrously gorgeous hair and twist gently, and—

Noctis’ knees quit—

And to be fair to them, especially after learning how to walk  _ twice  _ in his life, they held out through all of the important shit of his life and kept him upright when he needed it the most.

Also, Gladio is one hell of a fucking kisser.

And maybe whatever survival instinct he had left haven’t completely died and emptied out as he tries to arrange himself from under Gladio’s weight, his arm jackknifes back up so that he can clench—

Only that Gladio’s arm is already around his waist, and Gladio is already sinking to the floor with him — slowing his fall so that it’s practically a leisurely fucking descent, rather than the sudden drop it would have been—

His dumbass fucking heart keeps pounding like it was the latter, all along.

Gladio’s grin reemerges in all of its unbearable glory, and his other hand rises, and his knuckles graze along Noctis’ cheek, a line of warmth against a fucking furnace. There’s that glow back in those golden eyes, hitching the breath in his own chest. Gladio’s words are low, banking on the treble of his baritone voice. “I keep expecting you to disappear and every second that passes, the clearer and more vivid you get. This isn’t a dream, right?”

And he’s not going to give more credence to the explosion of so much painful, wondrously-agonizing hurt in his veins as Gladio looks at him with half-wonder, half-disbelief and Noctis starts seeing the nights, the days - the many weeks and years - the other had been dreaming of this, of waking up to  _ none  _ of this, in the shades of yellow and amber and gold.

“Not anymore.” Noctis answers back, and pulls him back down, and wonders if it’s the kiss - that sears through his bones, sizzling into his skin, that reverses the rotation of his orbit in the gravity of space, in the momentum of time, that creeps over the embers and into his edges and into that dark pit inside of him, igniting from within, until infinite white light trembles under his skin.

 

Or if it’s just Gladio.

 

It’s just Gladio, right?

 

Probably.

Maybe.

 

 

Definitely.

* * *

 

Gladiolus Amicitia, 41 y/o at the time of this fic:

 

 

 Yes, he has a fucking braid and I love it.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh, imagine if I didn't do a double chapter update and left this chapter in first. :)
> 
> Also, I'm quite surprised. Only 1 mid-chapter break here lol.
> 
> Also 2.0, cameos by King & Queen (Final Fantasy Type-0) and Auron & ~~(mention of)~~ Jecht (Final Fantasy X)


	6. we're like cars on a cable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> just breathe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning tag: This chapter will deal with explicit smut between two male characters. If that's not up to your liking, then please turn back now. Chapter 5 had the gist of the reconciliation between the members of the pairing. This chapter isn't really necessary, just in case you're wondering and you don't want to read the smut.
> 
> For the rest of you: this one is a little thank you gift for having faith in me and this fic.
> 
> title taken from "Breathe (2AM)" by Anna Nalick.

 

> **chapter VI:** we’re like cars on a cable

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

The flitting, the flying, the fucking fluttering of the—urgency? Desperation? Adrenaline? Just the plain fucking purity of the heat?—in Noctis’ stomach won’t stop, doesn’t even realize the idea of subsiding and boiling over, and he really fucking hopes and prays and whatever portmanteau of those two words exists and _hopes_ this is shit is normal.

Something about the way – the method and the madness – the way his shoulders tighten, his muscles relax and constrict and his brain restarts and reconstructs must telegraph something, maybe some sort of message, to Gladio, though, because the little fucking _asshole_ is kissing him again—a kiss like the whole world falling and Noctis would know—

Would know how that feels, how the waterfall of desperation runs through his veins as he free falls through the sky from a raging Astral’s scales, as he hurtles through the air, away from the rocky, jagged fist of an Archaean, always into the ground, into the void, into Gladio’s arms as he pulls him back to set him on the side—

And then they’re stretched out on the floor—or maybe Noctis is stretched out on the floor, and Gladio is kneeling over him, supplicant over, one arm under his back, so he arches it to keep his weight from cutting of Gladio’s stupid circulation, and—

When his hips hit Gladio’s, when the thin material of his jeans rub against the fucking _leather_ of Gladio’s pants, it’s like being _electrocuted_ – thrilled, shocked, wired up – like fucking Ramuh slammed the ferocity of his lightning into Noctis’, eviscerating him with light from the inside out, and the breath he’d been trying so hard to gasp in, hiss in, crackles as it _evaporates._

Just like that—just like a tera-Thundaga from a clear fucking sky; like the inevitable, imminent, inescapable fucking transfer of energy; like mutable fucking plasma, miasma and blood straight through—he’s so damn hard he can’t resist the impulse, the _need,_ to arch his spine a little higher and grind his hips on Gladio’s, and—

Fuck.

Shit.

Damn it.

Fuck Shiva.

Fuck Ramuh.

Fuck Titan.

Fuck all the fucking Astrals.

Fuck Gladio.

Maybe not.

Maybe yes.

Because he’s not the only one fucking eager for it, unless all the nerves – the fucking tactile synapses and he’s sure he’s got that wrong, maybe, somehow, not caring – in his pelvic region have suddenly taken up deception as a side job.

It’s a relief, fucking salvation, honestly—that Gladio’s every bit as primed and fucking ready; that his Shield makes a faint noise in the back of his throat and starts panting, gasping and hissing like a cat or a dog or a catdog into the side of Noctis’ neck, fingers tightening in his hair. It’d be fucking _humiliating_ to be the only one who wanted this so much he can’t even fucking help himself.

“Sorry,” Gladio says, which makes abso-fucking-lutely _zero_ sense. “It’s been—fuck, a while—and, shit, Noct—I’ve thought about—this—a _lot—_ in so many details—“

“—the fucking hell?” Noctis manages to choke out, partly to shut him up, partly to still the blood pooling down his fucking dick and up his face and out of him at the realization that Gladio’s wanted this as long as he had, and partly because this was hell. This was fucking hell. This was fucking, wondrous, perfect hell and he was an unrepentant sinner. “Are you—fucking saying sorry? Really?”

Gladio stops, stills, and his breath ripples across Noctis’ throat, goes to war with the overlapping fucking awkwardness, resulting in a bizarre, weird, halfway-maybe-really-turned-on impasse, crag, a fucking crossroad.

“Yes,” Gladio says. “Sor—“

“You’re—“This is the dumbest word known to man, the most illiterate, uncultured fucking three-syllable, eight-letter word and he’s going to fucking use it because the world is spinning and he’s long past holding on. “You’re _seducing_ me, and you’re—fucking saying sorry—for wanting it?”

Gladio’s eyelashes are a master artists’ fucking brush strokes as he blinks thrice, in a fucking row. “Uh—no. I was just…apologizing for being horny when you just came back and—there’s still so many things that we need to talk—“

“Your priorities are fucked, Gladio,” Noctis says.

The other draws back enough to grin at him—wearily, tiredly, but fucking _love_ shines in those eyes. “You have no idea how fucking happy I am to hear you say my name again.”

Shit.

Shit.

He will never not be ready for that. He will never not be ready for the encompassing heat surging and bursting through him at that. He will never not be ready for the fucking fireball and dawnstar that Gladio was.

“That’s a first,” He says – brokenly. He glowers. “You know what else oughta be fucked?”

“My love,” Gladio says, and the glimmer’s gone rouge comet, fucking Meteor of the Six, all over again and it’s slicing, ripping and cutting through the atmosphere, melting with the heat and the fucking friction, the delicious movement and its trajectory – the unmistakable curve. “Whatever do you mean?”

Noctis grits his teeth to stop himself from grinning back, because Gladio is just fucking perfect and he doesn’t need more of that going into his already fucking humungous head. “Could you do me a _huge_ fucking favor and shut the fuck up and just fuck me already?”

Gladio laughs – the trebles and notes of his joy just echoing inside Noctis’ skull – actually. “You really _want_ to? You might have missed a couple of ‘fucks’ there as far as you’re—“

Noctis reaches for him—fiercely—and ends up grabbing his hair as a handhold to drag him in and kiss him again, biting his bottom lip _hard_ this time.

The way – just the fucking way – a shaky moan shivers up from the center of Gladio’s gravity, echoing up his throat and outward and heavensward through the both of them, ignites something in the pit of Noctis’ stomach, and his heart just keeps shrilling like a fucking alarm. Maybe it is. Maybe this is what he’s been slowly and quietly trying to talk himself out of all along, in some fucking psychic way—this particular vulnerability, the power, the exchange of souls. Maybe some part of him always realized that once he begins, once he lets the touch turn to a storm, it’d be way the fuck over, and he wouldn’t stand a chance. Not even from the start.

He tries to peel off the shirt from Gladio, and gets his hand tangled under them, on the hard ridges of his abs and Gladio’s apologizing again, fucking smiling and he looks fucking _euphoric_ when he kisses Noctis in-between the laughs and the ‘sorrys’ and just— the dizzying rattle, the vertigo edging on to his consciousness, of Noctis’ heart makes it impossible and unavoidable to keep track of time, if time even exists, if everything else even exists. Maybe it does take a million years for Gladio’s fingers to grasp the neckline of his shirt, maybe it does take a million years for that large chest to breathe against him and hold on and over his own hands as Gladio just stares into his eyes, moving his fingers to the spaces between Noctis’ own hands on his chest—

And fucking rips the shirt off of him.

Noctis’ heart jitters up in his throat and over the hall and into the street outside just to turn into roadkill as a truck hits it flat. The thin _scraps_ of Gladio’s shirt hang over his chest like a fucking trophy, the gold skin and the black ink and the dark nipples and fuck—

Gladio’s mouth traces up the side of his neck to his ear and into his fucking soul, and then there’s another warm breath ghosting across his skin, and he trembles and shivers, but it’s not the cold – it’s not fucking Shiva’s icy wrath – and that’s just—too much.

“Are you alright?” Gladio whispers, quietly, into the shell of his ear and into the void of where his soul was, but the soft and oh so honeyed-voice brings it back to life with so much _agony._

And Noctis—

He is.

He fucking is.

He knows he is.

He’s going to be fine.

He’s dandy.

He’s fucking peachy.

It’s just that—if he lets this happen _to_ him instead of participating – instead of partaking in the control of it – he can already see it drowning him whole.

“Fuck,” he forces out around the weight of his heart, his suddenly favorite word and a holy verse and the pull of his guts and his groin. “Fuck. Gladio.”

Gladio draws back enough to make sure Noctis sees the brightness of his gaze, hasn’t been assuaged by his eloquence, and Noctis shifts and rides the change of power and he flattens his hands on Gladio’s chest, feels the warm, _trembling_ skin and looks back up at the other.

Fuck. His hand’s shaking. He can do this. He can.

Gladio’s mouth travels up his neck again, feather-light, warm and bruising, and the tickle sends another echo of a ripple across and through him.

“Noctis,” Glado says, voice low and devastating.

He says nothing, as his hands curl over the muscles, the fingers tracing over the face of an eagle forever imprinted on his mind, as the tips run down the scar of his chest, the fading keloid that runs through the sternum, through the pure scent of cedar and sandalwood and Gladio. “Fuck.”

“Noctis,” Gladio says again, and his hands lift, and his fingertips skate and dance across Noctis’ cheekbones, settling on his temples and smooths back his hair. It’s the fucking _gentleness,_ the softness, in all of it that makes Noctis’ long gone traitorous fucking hands _stop_ once and for all, and Noctis looks up at him and glares at him with everything he’s got.

It’s not much. There’s not much left to him.

“Noctis,” because the third time is the _fucking_ charm, it’s always the third – the voice just keeps deepening and thickening like molten syrup down his throat. Like fucking—wine and beer and alcohol and a heady drug in his veins. Intoxicating, dangerous as fuck and more than everything Noctis knows how to deal with, because this is an unknown region, a vast shadowy plain on the outskirts of his world and he has no idea how this game is supposed to go.

“What?” He growls.

Gladio cups his face in both hands and waits until Noctis stops shivering and squirming, looking right into his eyes.

“Trust me.”

“I fucking _do,_ ” Noctis says – blurts out, lets out without a second of thought. The words aren’t practiced and rehearsed, they’re fucking traitorous as they escape the confines of his heart but they sound sure, they sound confident – like he’s thought it through, like he knows that they were always bound to emerge from the tragic, oh so _tragic_ depths of his fucking brain the moment his lips part to fucking be breathe. “Always. I always _do.”_ Forever. “Since the start.” Gladio’s smile just grows larger at the same time his arm guides Noctis’ torso down back to the carpet, which is a really confusing contrast further made all the more – wasn’t that redundant? – _problematic_ by the way Noctis’ heart keeps _banging_ against his ribs. Oh, it’s back in his chest, again. “Even you’re such a dickhead about it, I still trust you. Even now, even after all this, I still trust you— _ahh,_ fuck, _Gladio—_ “

“Good,” Gladio murmurs, kissing softly at the teeth marks he just fucking left on the side of Noctis’ neck.

“You are a fucking _dog,_ ” Noctis says, and his heart’s beating even fucking _faster,_ but—lighter, less intensely, urgently, or less like panic and more like—

Like a high. Like the fucking aftermath of the exhausting call of a god’s power. Like a fight for his life—the best fucking fight of his life.

Gladio hums, breathing across his throat, dragging his tongue and fuck—

“You are an animal,” Noctis chokes out.

Gladio’s eyes are fucking burning gold as he looks up through his eyelashes. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s because it’s you.”

Noctis hears a weird, wet sort of noise and then realizes—way too fucking late—that he just made it trying to gasp in enough breath to fucking _sob._

He was the fucking King of _Kings._ He doesn’t fucking _sob—_ not at the gargantuan gods turning him into a toy at their beckon and whim, or at the myriad of bullets running at him from imperial guns or the crushing weight of the whole fucking world or someone else’s blood on his hands or the fucking _apocalypse—_ and he’s not going to do it for Gladio fucking Amicitia—

One of Gladio’s hands is still tangled up in his hair, and the other one just closed around his _dick_ and started massaging meaningfully.

And Noctis’ sobs fly from perch to transform into ear-splitting groans. Which is a lot more appropriate and specific and a lot less humiliating. Or—something. Or—fuck, the asshole is so fucking _good_ at this it’s like a disaster-turned-miracle—

The heel of Gladio’s hand sort of undulates and twists and – _grinds,_ there we go – and it’s just hard enough that it hurts in a way that’s fucking _divine._

Noctis tries to tell him so and ends up with one groan after the other, but based on the way Gladio laughs oh so softly and nips at the collarbone on Noctis’ left – or was it left collarbone on his chest – apparently, the message is still sent across—

And Noctis is a fucking champ, he can play this game, too and—well, they both have, too, right? When it’s like this, it’s more than person just feeling and wanting and bursting?

He bucks and twists his hips up as hard as he can, aiming right for Gladio’s to press the asshole’s hand in between their bodies—and gods, that feels even better than he fucking thought—

And it’s dangerous and wild and static and extremely lethal, because he never had the slightest idea how fucking _heady_ and intoxicating it was, to coax and pull noises like that—noises and sounds like the ones Gladio’s making, low and shameless and _shivery,_ noises like the ones that keep tearing their way up and out of his throat no matter how hard, how fucking hard, he tries to swallow them for the sake of some vestige of dignity or fucking pride—out of someone like _Gladio._

Affecting him like this is dizzyingly good and hot as fucking hell.

That’s what Noctis wants. That’s just about every-fucking-thing he wants right this second—the heat. The heat of his own blood; of the fire and the inferno; of the room and Gladio’s skin and eyes and mouth and hands and fingertips, and the choked-off hiss he makes when Noctis scrambles for a grip on the scraps of the shirt, on the hot muscle and the wet skin, hitching his body up to savor the undeniable, impossible outline of Gladio’s erection pushing at his pants—

And it’s just so wanton to let his head fall back and his eyes fall shut and rut hard against the pressure with his own needy, aching, _fucking_ dick, then he’s burned on a million stakes already—he’s already fucking ash. Nobody who’s ever felt like this would blame him; nobody who’s ever gripped the fabric of another person’s tatter of a shirt and given over to a cresting tidalwave of pleasure so immense that it defies description altogether—

“Fuck,” Gladio whispers, catching his breath and Noctis’ heart has long gone past skipping several beats, because _he_ did that—he’s responsible for Gladio Amicitia struggling to get the oxygen for the blood that’s filling up his dick. “You’re so fucking beautiful. How are you even real?”

“Save it for some cheap-ass date,” Noctis gets out.

“Are you volunteering—“ Gladio’s hands, illegal things they were, or are, the graze of them up Noctis’ side might as well be a fucking drug. “—to go on a date with me?”

“Depends,” Noctis breathes. To be fair, it takes him five full seconds to muster up saliva for the rest. “Are there swords involved?”

Gladio’s fucking whole body undulates against his—thick and heavy and sinuous and still-too-hot and so fucking perfect and impossibly against the odds and he’s fucking run out of words in _every_ language, or probably in any other that Noctis has heard. “I—fuck, _Noct—_ think I can manage that.”

In the interests of discovering—if this can get even better, Noctis starts grasping at the skin low on Gladio’s hips. “And you gotta buy me dinner.”

Gladio grins against his throat, then drags his teeth back across the skin over and over again. “If I can afford it.”

“Don’t t-tell me— _shit—_ “

Politely, Gladio waits for him to continue.

Fucking _rudely,_ he’s also sucking on Noctis’ collarbone while he waits.

Noctis wrestles about three-quarters of a real breath into his lungs. “Don’t f-fuckin’ tell me they don’t pay you enough to—take a—fuck—to dinner once or twice.”

Gladio’s hands are parting Noctis’ shirt much very, very fucking _efficiently_ while Noctis just manages to hold on to the scraps hanging at the sides—fuck, as Gladio’s tongue skates down his sternum; the heat of his breath on the damp trail coaxes another groan out of Noctis’ well-attended throat. “How about once or twice a week—maybe until the money runs out or you get bored of it?”

The man’s hand stills – frozen – as his eyes take in the clear skin on Noctis’ chest, the lack of a sword wound bite in the center of where his heart is fucking beat with a drumbeat of a thousand marching bands. Noctis’ breathing is ragged, and when Gladio looks up at him, his golden eyes are molten and liquid once more.

The throb of Noctis’ dick is distracting as hell, in the same pace as the burning of his own skin and the so good _pain_ of his breathing. “How about every day, then?”

Gladio pauses in his progress down Noctis’ chest just long enough to smirk up at him, faint glimmer of pain receding into so much fucking _love_ and affection. “Do you like this shirt?”

And Noctis only has enough motor function to shake his head once before Gladio’s grasping the ends of the shirt that holds the buttons close—

And pop, there goes one—

And pop, there goes another—

Until all the buttons are either askew or flying somewhere into another world—

Noctis turns his head towards the shirt Gladio he just stripped off in a painfully literal sense of the word. “You’re fixing this later.”

The gleam in Gladio’s eyes set afire to whatever remains of his internal organs. “I don’t give a fuck.”

Noctis swallows, which is highly dangerous, since he doesn’t know where his spit’s going to end up now that his organs are charred. His hands’ are getting unsteady again, but it’s the sheer force of the fucking eagerness this time, drawing his fingertips down Gladio’s chest that assuages the worst of it right off the fucking bat. “You better give one at least.”

“Don’t worry,” Gladio says, and he runs the tip of his tongue along the edge of his teeth as he starts to grin with volcanic fucking heat. “I’m holding several in reserve for you.”

Noctis wants to say something seriously fucking witty.

What comes out is “Fuck.”

Gladio’s hands are roving all over his body yet again, and there is no greater torment in the fucking world, so he shuts his eyes and lets everything go limp to focus on enjoying it. “What’s the magic word?”

Noctis cracks an eye open to target the snarl rabidly. “Now,” he says.

The glimmer turns to a twinkle while Gladio laughs, which is not the fucking point, so Noctis curls his fingers around the fly of the asshole’s leather jeans and sweeps one inside the waistband of Gladio’s underwear—just far enough to graze his dick, and the way the surrounding muscles jump all at once, and the laugh strangles right into a moan—

“Point taken,” Gladio gasps out as Noctis tries to figure out whether it’s easier to undo the button or just shove his hand inside. Maybe it’s a bit the former or a bit the latter or a bit of both.

Noctis’s so rarely been accused of trepidation and the mind-bowling fear that the shove-the-whole-hand-in strategy was probably the only option all along. “You always spend this much time talking when you fuck?”

It’s—weird, sort of. Having another man’s throbbing, straining, searingly hot cock in your hand. But when he gently starts stroking, Gladio’s eyes widen and then squeeze shut—and then he hangs his head and makes a faint noise like he’s dying, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. Like dying by Noctis’ hand is the only way he wants it possible.

“Gods, yes,” Gladio grits out, biting his lip like every fantasy of Noctis had come to life to torture him just so _sweetly._ “Right—the fuck—like that.”

This is a quick-draw fucking high-stakes game that Noctis’s never played before, but he’ll be damned if anybody ever calls him a slow learner ever again. He knows he’s not the smartest, but he can fucking make it count if he needs to, if his entire body and his soul and his fucking existence needs for it.

The other arm makes it sort of a pain, but he can still arch his back up enough to breathe out into the shell of Gladio’s ear.

“Yes, sir,” he says, the word skittering down the lobe of the other’s ear.

Gladio—

—groans loudly, grins recklessly, laughs breathlessly, half-turns to smear a damp kiss on Noctis’s cheek, and then plants one hand on the carpet to support himself while he unfastens his slacks in the time it takes Noctis to blink and then shoves them down to his knees.

“You are,” Gladio says, panting more than just a little now, “ _fuck.”_

Noctis tunnels his fingers the way he usually likes it and starts pumping Gladio’s dick real slow. “I am what?”

“Like the second chance I’ve finally been fucking given,” Gladio says, and the coherency and the temerity and the _belief_ in it is sort of belied by the sheen of sweat on his forehead and the tremble of his elbow where he’s holding himself up. Noctis doesn’t really care or mind or both because the words Gladio had spoken had fried every cell in his being. “Like the best dream I’ve ever had finally came true—“ A low, uneven groan that quickens Noctis’s blood—and thickens it, with such violent fucking suddenness that he almost can’t see for a second. “Must—be—the explanation for your—size—”

Noctis stops ministering to the goddamn motherfucking traitor he’d been planning to fuck and sleep and _make love_ with until just now. “My what?”

And Gladio is laughing again, like this is the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him, and all he wants it to aim that smug-ass fucking shit-eating grin at Noctis and wait for the fireworks for the rest of his life.

“If you were bigger,” Gladio says, “the universe just wouldn’t be able to hold you.”

Noctis’s body’s so fucking confused. Between the sex and the rage, he’s not even sure what the heat burgeoning everywhere is coming from anymore.

“You better be the best fucking lay in Eos by a long shot,” he says, “or I am gonna do things I don’t even wanna talk about to your balls.”

Gladio clicks his tongue and shakes his head, and if Noctis couldn’t see the pulse pounding desperately in his throat, it’d be ass-kicking time. “Communication is key to a healthy relationship, Noctis.”

“How about this?” Noctis asks, hooking his right leg around Gladio’s hips to drag his criminally unattended groin all the way up Gladio’s thighs and then against his cock before letting his own weight draw him back down. “Fuck me right this goddamn second, or I’m moving to the fucking Vesperpool and fuck the melusine there.”

“Surely,” Gladio says, and there’s the purr again, and the fucking eyelashes, and that shouldn’t fucking work, but suddenly Noctis can’t even hope to breathe; “after all this waiting, you’re hungry enough for an appetizer before we get to the main course?”

Noctis scowls as darkly as he’s capable of, but his hand’s got a mind of its fucking own, and it’s tracing one fingertip real slow around the edge of Gladio’s huge fucking slash scar in a way that probably qualifies as “loving” no matter what expression’s on his face.

“I didn’t order a fucking appetizer,” he says. “’Cause sometimes that just slows ’em d—”

Noctis’s fast, sure—everybody knows it. It’s the reason he’s alive; basically always has been.

But Gladio Amicitia is a legend.

And he’s got Noctis’s pants down around his thighs and a hot, hot, so fucking hot mouth around Noctis’s dick in a matter of a second and a half, and—

Fucking hell—

Practically all that Noctis can see through the fucking sunburst is silky dark hair trailing over skin—his skin, his hipbones; and those incredible fucking hands spread themselves on one thigh each and pin him to the carpet as the sheer fucking power of it tears on through him, and his spine tries to curl back to let it out—

Oh, Astrals, he likes the way it feels trying to writhe and knowing Gladio will hold him down.

And Gladio knows he knows it, because he makes a sound like sobbing, and his hips strain hard for freedom, and Gladio’s grip only tightens, and those fingers start to dig into his ass—

And it is absolutely fucking unreal how fucking perfect and right and good and everything that’s bright and pure it feels—Gladio’s mouth around him, too-hot and so wet and close; the press of his tongue is staggering, and if Noctis had any nerves left to electrify, to stagger and connect, they’d be quitting their day jobs to get in on this—

And Gladio shifts in closer—takes him deeper—and swipes his tongue slowly against the base of Noctis’s cock, then up along the whole length of it to flick just the tip of it just gently at the head, then down again—so fucking far down, deeper – far deeper than any cold, any flame, any monstrous fear could ever run down and wrap its sickly, deathly hands around his throat to shove him face-down into the abyss below - enveloping him completely, sucking softly at first and then harder, and swallowing so that the rings of muscle in his throat just fucking ripple all around Noctis’s skin, and—

Too late he notices that his hand’s clenched in Gladio’s hair, probably too tight, but the bastard hasn’t quit or complained yet, so maybe—?

Gladio swallows, swallows, bobs his head, jacks the pressure up from magnificent to perfect-unbearable with the inward-upward motion of his tongue—

“Fuck,” Noctis gasps out, and he doesn’t even recognize the sound of his own damn voice—who the fuck is this kid all faint and reedy and broken and just so fucking reborn like he’s never even talked before? “Fuck—Gladio—gods, Gladio—I —”

To be fair, though, it’s not exactly like he had any brain cells left to think about it, like he had any cerebral function left to innervate the fried nerves and junctions in his brain, like he’s even fucking alive enough to even do something barely, intellectually human—

And Gladio—

Fucking Gladio—

Just—

Looks up at him through the ragged curtain of gorgeous dark hair, and his eyes are so fucking hot and bright and deadly with a challenge and an unformed grin that Noctis just can’t—

Not—

Come so hard he blacks out, then whites out – like a reverb of time and space as an Alterna spell distorts everything around him, like his entire life flashing before his eyes, like a fucking film reel of every goddamn _good_ memory he’s held on to in the darkest, deepest, ugliest cells of his entire being – then wakes up gasping on the floor with sharply-burning tears digging into the corners of his eyes.

Gladio’s sitting up, one hand smoothing gently up and down Noctis’s left thigh, like he doesn’t even fucking see the little scratches and bumps on his skin as he had trudged through the tundra of a continent _fucking_ miles away, like he doesn’t even see the hard nubs of his nipples and the gasping of his chest and the ripples that continue to run through his body, like he doesn’t even fucking see the tears that have gathered in his eyes?

It’s a good damn thing Gladio looks so fucking self-satisfied and smug and confident and just so fucking perfect that Noctis forgets to be upset about anything.

“The fuck did you learn how to do that?” Noctis coughs up, because it seems like somebody ought to say something before Gladio just eye-smolders them both out of existence. He’s not even sure what interrogative word’s supposed to go at the front of the question, but since pretty much all of them are relevant, it doesn’t matter much. At this point, anything beyond the line of reproach is already a reproach in itself and he just can’t.

“High school,” Gladio says, which answers the when and the where, at least. His tongue darts out to run along his upper lip. Noctis can’t tell if he’s actually getting anything, but it’s hot as hell just contemplating the reality that Gladio fucking Amicitia just licked cum off of his dick.

And liked it.

And the realization that he could have had this, all this time, since the moment his attraction began—

Fuck, this was really a dream.

“You think they’d open a spot if I tried to enroll?” Noctis asks.

Gladio’s thumbs trace simultaneously down along the creases where his thighs meet his hips.

“I think you should be home-schooled,” he says.

It’s sort of a pity Noctis doesn’t have much breath left to laugh—but on the other hand, Gladio’s ego doesn’t need the help.

“Mm,” Gladio murmurs, leaning down to drag his mouth along the inside of Noctis’s nerve-loaded knee, tugging Noctis’s pants down a little further while he’s there; “I’ve been thinking of a lot of lesson plans.”

Noctis can’t tell whether his body’s trying to shiver or to contort itself closer to Gladio. It’d be hard to argue with either one. “Y—yeah? I’m into—practical demonstrations. H-hands-on learning and all that—” The tip of Gladio’s tongue traces an aimless wavy line along the inside of his thigh, and his back arches, and the breath tears out of him in a single gasp. “—sh-shit. All that shit. Fuck. Gladio.”

“Present and accounted for,” Gladio says into his skin.

“Y’know,” Noctis says, reaching forward to kiss the trail of sweat on Gladio’s chest, down the pectoral and his tongue flicks against the nipple. Gladio shudders so hard, and looks at him with so much fucking heat that he’s about to combust. “I think I would’ve liked school a lot more if it—”

“If everyone got private tutoring,” Gladio says, “it wouldn’t be special anymore.” He looks up slowly, and it’s funny that he’s so famous for his skill with his hands when his eyes are just as dangerous. “Are you ready for more?”

The thought that it might get better than this makes the pit of Noctis’s stomach start to warm again— just like fucking that. “You bet your fucking perfect ass on it.”

“Mm,” Gladio says, because he’s an asshole bastard piece of shit who seems to understand that every time he makes that noise, it’s worse and that it echoes in the reverb of Noctis’ heart; “that ought to be my line.”

“No more lines from you, remember?” Noctis says. “You’re on line probati—fuck—”

Gladio just folded Noctis’s right knee up against his chest and started mouthing damply down the back of his thigh, which feels so fucking good Noctis thinks he’s entitled to forget the rest of that sentence as his brain shorts out.

“I assumed you were moments away,” Gladio says, and he nips, and Noctis—hears a faint, high howl that clearly came from someone else— “From suggesting that I kiss your ass. So I thought I should oblige. I was always a good student, unlike a certain prince I know.”

Most of Noctis’s vitals must be functioning, or he wouldn’t be able to feel the blood starting to beat with that specific kind of urgency again—light and faint, at first; a pattering, a fluttering, and then a tidal wave of heat.

“They should have given you the biggest smartass award in high school.” He manages to grit out—which, he’d like the record to show, is really rather impressive and amazing and, by far, quite extraordinary when you’ve got Gladio fucking Amicitia smirking at you from between your legs, the sheen of his skin against that jaw and, fuck, like he’s the best thing there is in the entire world and he’s within Noctis’ grip like a fucking absolution.

Gladio wraps one hand around each of Noctis’s thighs and gazes at the way his fingertips dimple the flesh as he gradually tightens his grip. He looks like he just won an all-expenses-paid ticket to paradise, and there’s no round-trip. And paradise is fucking Noctis Lucis Caelum and nothing else.

“As amazing as I can be,” he says, and Noctis’s chest does a funny kind of clenching thing, “I’m not as perfect as your majesty and I need a few things to prepare for this.”

Noctis always knew he should’ve read one or two of those shitty, trashy romance comics Prompto likes. Maybe then he’d know how you’re supposed to sprawl and lounge seductively in a situation like this. The only kind of sprawling he’s got practice with is the kind that deliberately takes up as much of the bed as possible.

He takes a stab at an educated guess by stretching his arm up over his head, arching his spine, and twisting his hips—which feels great on top of probably looking okay, right up until a bit of cartilage in his shoulder pops louder than the fucking fire.

“Shit,” he manages, feeling his face heat up in the really-not-good kind of way. “Real sexy.” Gladio’s eyes don’t dull a fucking fraction, and they don’t waver from where they’re fixed on Noctis’s.

“You’re damn right,” he says. He heaves a more-than-slightly-histrionic sigh, kisses Noctis’s hipbone softly, and gets up, starting for the doorway. “Excuse me, darling.”

“What?” Noctis asks, but the combination – the sheer beautiful mixture - of post-orgasm weakness and the lack of support from the right arm makes it difficult to lever himself partway upright. “Oh, no,” he calls after Gladio’s retreating back, and he can read the fucking smugness in no more than the line of those damn shoulders. “None of that pet name shit. You hear me? I will end you.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Gladio says, voice trailing down the hall, and…

And shit. He—Noctis Lucis Caelum, prince fuckup, renowned-bringer of bad luck, sinner extraordinaire—is lying half-naked on the carpet in Gladio Amicitia’s living room, basking in both the heat of the fireplace and the increasing likelihood that he’s about to get fucked into next week.

It’s almost good enough to blot out all the shit that got him here.

His hair’s already tangling like a motherfucker, but that’s a problem that can wait; he shoves it back out of his face and then hikes himself up on his elbow.

Footsteps proceed back down the hall at a fairly precipitous rate, but then they pause in the doorway. Noctis tries to make his cautious glance upward—to see how fucking stupid Gladio thinks he is—look casual. Isn’t confidence supposed to be the kicker, or something?

Gladio doesn’t look disgusted at all, though, unless he’s gotten way fucking better at acting since Noctis left.

“You,” Gladio says, “are so damn gorgeous it’s unreal.”

“I dunno about this ‘gorgeous’ shit,” Noctis says, his soul somewhere over Gralea. Maybe. “but I’ve been telling you I’m real in the last half-hour or so.”

It is so fucking unfair – just a tad bit on the scales of unfairness - how much fucking hell that goddamn grin wreaks, tears apart and completely dismantles Noctis’s every last damn system. Gladio Amicitia ought to come with one of those fucking warning labels about how consumption poses a significant risk to all of your vitals and shit, like the goddamn cupped noodles the man can eat and never show for it.

“Sorry about that,” Gladio says, sauntering over. He catches up a red blanket and two of the throw pillows from the couch en route to where Noctis is still valiantly attempting at a sexy sprawl. “I may need a few more reminders, just in case.”

The roaring white silence is probably a bad sign. Did Noctis just slip past into the Crystal again for a second there?

“I can’t believe this,” a remnant of his voice remarks. “I’m gonna kill you and go to jail for murder before I ever get to lose my virginity in two lifetimes.”

Gladio crouches down next to Noctis, head tilting as he grins again. “Can’t we multitask?”

“Hey, look at that,” Noctis says, nodding to him. “Dead man talking.”

Gladio shifts down onto one of his knees, bracing the hand not dragging half of the couch next to Noctis’s head and leaning in to kiss him. Probably Noctis should, like, bite the bastard’s lip for vengeance or something, but honestly it just feels too fucking nice, just so fucking nice and good after all the cold and the bullets and the endless whispers of _I’m coming home, I’m coming home, I’m coming home._

“Should take care of your problem first before you take my head off, then,” Gladio says.

“I think your problem’s more pressing right now,” Noctis says, rolling far enough to cup his left hand around Gladio’s groin, and—sure enough—the bastard’s still hard as hell, and his eyelids flutter as Noctis squeezes gently.

“Mmmm,” Gladio says. The fucker. “Touché.” He pushes his hips forward into Noctis’s grip and then drops to both knees, which gives him better leverage to run one hand slowly down Noctis’s side. “Shit. Didn’t even strip you properly; that’s a damn shame.” He draws the bottom of the paltry shirt currently protecting Noctis’s torso from the unthinkable cold up slowly, kissing at the skin underneath. “To be fair, I was in a bit of a hurry.”

“Fuck,” Noctis manages, which is about the best he’s probably going to be able to do between the heat of Gladio’s dick in his hand and the heat of Gladio’s mouth on his stomach. It’s also his most favorite word by now. Also a new prayer.

Fuck.

Yes, new favorite word, indeed.

Gladio has been doing that damn obnoxious thing he always does—that is, half-listening with an ever-so-slightly smug little smile, and then plotting and enacting his attack while his opponent waits in expectation of a returning strike.

Well—if ducking down and nibbling at one of Noctis’s hips counts as an “attack”, anyway. Noctis doesn’t have the vocabulary for this shit. He doesn’t even have the air for this shit.

He also can’t help fucking squirming as Gladio shoves his shirt up practically to his shoulders and starts tracking up his chest—nipping and licking and lathing and just… lavishing every last fucking inch of his skin, savoring every muscle, and what the hell—?

He writhes a little harder, trying to get some traction to… well, shit—to something; Gladio’s doing all the damn work. That’s not how it’s supposed to go, is it? It can’t be, the way people talk; so —

One of Gladio’s hands closes around his wrist, pinning it over his head, and his breath catches so hard that he chokes on it.

Dredging a few words up from the fucking magma in the pit of his stomach is nearly impossible, but that’s sort of his trademark by now. “Would you just let m—“

“No,” Gladio says, the tip of his tongue feather-light on one of Noctis’s ribs, which is unfair, thank you very goddamn much. “Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel so good. I want to, Noct. I want to so fucking much.”

He should be used to the way his insides are all mush now.

“Guess it’s good,” Noctis chokes out as Gladio’s mouth descends onto his skin again—stark-bright sparks of gorgeous pain from the teeth soothed instantly by the damp breath and the soft mouth, and if this is what it’s supposed to be like, how does anybody go around doing anything fucking else?

Gladio laughs, and the shiver of the air across Noctis’s skin actually makes it worse, and his back arches, and the way Gladio’s grip on his wrist tightens to hold him down—

Fuck.

Noctis grits his teeth—you can’t not answer, when sounds like that; but it’s all a fucking power game, isn’t it? Trying to get Noctis to admit to wanting something that he really shouldn’t but can’t help craving, and—? Except then Gladio ducks to kiss—with just a hint of a bite—at the side of his neck, right under his ear, body undulating upward over Noctis’s as he levies his weight on pinning Noctis’s arm.

And that—that pulses in his veins all the fucking harder, all the fucking faster; that’s a call to arms dissolved right into his very fucking blood.

Because that sounds like a promise.

And Gladio doesn’t make those idly.

Gladio doesn’t do anything idly.

The ceiling in here is really—well, actually, it’s not really anything in particular. It’s a fucking ceiling. Dark wood beams and maybe some kind of stucco or something. He keeps swallowing, but his heart keeps bobbing back up into his throat and beating there, intently, as Gladio’s breath sighs against the all-too-tender, still-too-sensitive skin.

Noctis drags in a labored breath and lets it out slow and shuddering as Gladio’s mouth hovers there— just the whisper of his tongue, like the slither of silk, favoring Noctis’s thigh for another fraction of a second before it draws away.

Noctis wins the fight for words this time: “You gotta stop that.”

“Stop what?” Gladio murmurs, because he is the biggest, evilest, worst fucking bastard in the entire extended history of terrible bastards dating back to the dawn of man.

“Teasing me,” Noctis grinds out, “you fucking—aah—”

He’d fully intended to finish that with something pithy and cutting and brilliant—right up until the point where the flat of Gladio’s tongue glides slowly and deliberately up the underside of his dick.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Gladio asks, and his voice is still like hot fucking butter, and Noctis can’t bear it— “It looks like you’re enjoying it.”

“You’re not giving me much of a fucking—” His back arches off the floor, and the breath sears out of his lungs. “—choice, much of a fucking—choice—”

Gladio’s sigh is soft and weirdly sweet, and there’s a tenor of a laugh beneath it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sounding like he really means it, even; like it’s true. “It’s just that you’re so —you just fucking feel so good and taste so _goddamn_ good.”

“Shut it,” Noctis says. The effort of wedging his elbow underneath himself and lifting his torso enough to see the bastard’s face is, at least, distracting his attention from Gladio’s mouth enough that he can almost think straight.

Gladio, newly visible—

—grins.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” he asks. “I suppose I can still do quite a lot of damage with it closed.”

Noctis lets his shoulders drop to the carpet and his head fall with them. He knows the cascade of his stupid hair will just about give Gladio a heart attack, so that’s something. “Can’t believe I agreed to this.”

“Still time—” And there’s that fucking tongue again, light and delicate against the far-too-secret skin between his asshole and his dick, and holy—shit— “—to change your mind.”

It takes Noctis a full two-second span to realize that he’s scraping both heels on the carpet like a feverish fucking animal, writhing with the effort of trying to pour some of the overwhelming heat inside him out.

“Fuck,” he says, faintly, and it sounds surprised even to his own ears.

“Getting there,” Gladio says. “Patience, Noctis.”

Bastard. Asshole knows, doesn’t he? Knows how many years Noctis’s been dreaming of that voice, his name, firelight and a slow burn under every centimeter of his skin. How long he’s slumbered in the endless chasms of the Crystal, the icy _deathly_ cold around him and only the thought of his waiting Shield keeping the frost from biting deep into his heart and turning it to stone.

He makes some kind of a noise that averages the worst parts of an Oh and an Augh, and then his hips are rising from the floor again; he just can’t help it; can’t stop it; can’t make real words come.

Funny thing is, the time he accidentally learned what rimming was in a high school cafeteria, he thought it sounded like some special kind of fucking torture—miserable as shit for both parties, and disgusting and unsanitary to boot, and sure, he blushed redder than a fucking stoplight at sunset, and Gladio almost choked to death laughing at his expression, which at least was great insofar as it diverted everyone’s attention from Noctis’s embarrassment, but—

But the thing is—

This feels like fucking heaven.

Well—

Damper, maybe; heaven’s supposed to have—clouds and shit, right? But this—

Just—

Gods—

The slick trajectory of Gladio’s income-fuck-par-ing-able fucking tongue—just—dipping, sliding, probing, mapping— gently—either all the nerves in his body suddenly concentrated in that one fucking spot, or his whole system’s rapidly going haywire, and either way, it’s just so fucking good—

The absolutely fucking delicious torment abates for a second, and Gladio’s voice rumbles, and Noctis tries to blink the fucking stars out of his eyes long enough to listen.

“All right?” Gladio asks.

 _No_ , Noctis thinks. _I’ve died and been reborn. That’s three lifetimes now._

“Again,” Noctis pants out, “with the low fuckin’ standards, dumbass. You know who you are?”

“Most of the time,” Gladio murmurs. “It’s a bit harder without you.”

Shit. Shit. Shitfuckingshit. He believes it. He fucking believes the worshipful way Gladio kisses his skin, searing gold against the ocean blues as the words take root, grow and turn into something _wonderful—_

“Well, now,” Noctis says, fighting to sit up again so he can glare a little better, “it can be a bit harder with me, if you get my drift.”

Gladio smiles at him, and one eyebrow arches slowly. “Is that your kingly way of saying that I save the soppy declarations for another time and pay attention to his kingly fuckinly perfect body?”

Noctis tries to focus on the sound of his breath hissing in and out past his teeth instead of on the excruciating throb in his guts, in his blood, in his groin.

“You ever seen me kingly request a fucking thing?” he asks.

“Point taken,” Gladio says and returns to the task of lapping kiss after kiss on Noctis’ entrance until every fucking name of every fucking Astral in the world fucking disappears.

Shit.

Too many fuck with the suffix –ing. Sounds almost blasphemous.

Noctis rolls his hips, which doesn’t do a whole lot for the boiling heat beneath his skin, but something’s gotta give.

“If you don’t want to—keep doing that,” he gets out, “tell me what the fuck you want me to do, okay?”

“I want you to keep lying there,” Gladio says, running both tantalizingly warm open palms up and down Noctis’s thighs, with another goddamn slowly-unfurling radiant fucking grin, “like a fucking prize I’ve worked so hard to get.”

“You say that—” Noctis starts trying to wriggle free of all the stupid fucking clothes tangled up around his wrist and the weight of it keeps trapping his other arm. “—like you think I’m above it.”

Gladio pauses, and Noctis can just see him considering the best way to phrase the joke.

Time for the heavy fucking artillery. Noctis jerks his left arm free and lashes out with it before Gladio can do the stupid fucking coy drawing-away bit again—and gets all five fingers curled in the silky dark hair just behind his ear to make sure he can’t do it any time soon.

He leans in as close as he can without going cross-eyed staring at the dumbass’ way-too-gorgeous, way-too-smug fucking face, and then he breathes against that talented mouth as softly as he dares.

“Would you just fuck me?” he says.

“Noctis,” Gladio says softly, and the fingers curling around Noctis’s are even softer, and the love curling around Noctis’ far-too-broken heart is the softest.

He looks over at the fire—which is easier, for starters; and might help hide the worst of the fucking blood rushing to his cheeks, for bonus points. Might also help avoid the fact that if he looks at Gladio any more, then every little secret he’s hidden, every little feeling that has made him keep on keeping on will have nowhere to hide—

Right into Gladio’s constantly open arms.

“Noctis,” Gladio says this time—still gentle, but a summons, not the sex act, and Noctis slants his eyes sideways just enough to answer it.

Gladio cups Noctis’s hand in his two, lifts it to his mouth, and kisses the knuckles. He keeps one hand wrapped around it and reaches out to touch the arm with the other.

“I love you.” He says. Again.

Noctis takes one breath, and then another.

It’s not like Gladio doesn’t know. It’s not like Gladio doesn’t know better—truer—than most people. It’s not like Gladio hasn’t seen the real fucking thing, at the very beginning, when their eyes first clashed as he had lain there in a pool of his own blood as his father screamed for help around him—the absence; the hacked-off emptiness of the reality of what isn’t there. Not just the replacement. Not just the ingenious contraption with wheels that helps even him to forget, sometimes, what he really lost.

What he really is, and what he really isn’t.

It’s not like Gladio didn’t put both hands on the wreck of a fucking kid in a wheelchair, held together with a couple stitches and an echo of the grief beneath the whirlwind of guilt and worthlessness. It’s not like Gladio hasn’t seen him sprawled on wet pavement surrounded by the fragments of his own fucking ruin, looking up at death and wondering if it might be kinder. It’s not like Gladio doesn’t know where he’s been, and what he’s done, and what he looks like when the crutches and the elegant prosthetics all fall away.

He swallows.

“Yeah,” he says. “Love you, too.”

Gladio looks at him for a long, long moment more, long enough for Noctis to know that he heard it; that he gets it—he understands that it’s all part of this same fucking game Noctis’s been playing his whole stupid life, where the shallow end is the only place he ever starts to drown. When this is moving fast enough—when what he feels is overpowering the feelings—he can handle it, and it’s great, actually; he likes it. Gladio’s been paying attention—he noticed that, just now; he’s Gladio; he’ll have figured it the fuck out.

Sure enough, all he says is “I know,” and it’s in about the softest version Noctis’s ever heard of his fucking voice.

“Hold on,” Gladio murmurs, and Noctis pauses with his arm drawn halfway back, trying to convince his eyes to see straight enough to figure out what the fuck Gladio’s feeling; did he do something wrong, or—?

He must fucking have, because Gladio’s got one arm under Noctis’s shoulders and the other hand splayed on his sternum, laying him back down on the rug and then—

Catching up one of the pillows to set it under Noctis’s head—and following it with the second, which winds up wedged beneath his hips.

And his heart starts pounding twice as hard, just like that—fucking instinct is a trip.

This isn’t fucking fair.

Do other people have to deal with this shit? The beat of Noctis’s blood between his hips is shaking him so hard he thinks he’s going to shatter; it’s gone from vicious to fucking violent, and his dick aches, and his guts are liquid and his heart is a fucking time bomb—

Maybe that’s just Gladio.

Gods, maybe that’s just what he does to people; maybe it’s just the trademark Amicitia suaveness felling another fucking casualty. Maybe Noctis’s just weak for this— for him, for the way his gorgeous hands move, for the focus of his incredible eyes, for that sheer strength and size always keeping the danger off and away from him.

The latter slip mostly shut as Gladio lifts his dick out of his pants and smooths one hand along the underside. He tilts his head back and softly, so softly, starts to moan—

“Gladio,” he gets out, and the rough catch of his own voice is almost startling. Words belong to other people; words are for feelings small enough to fit into capsulated syllables; this is so much more. “Gladio—I need—I need you to fuck me; I—”

That pulls a sharp gasp off of Gladio’s lips, and it cuts right through him and burrows into his bone marrow, and it’s all he can do to cling to consciousness as Gladio abandons every last pretense of collectedness and fumbles, every seam coming apart, unraveling – that’s all he is, unravel and undone and unfurling—

And fuck, Noctis’s never really stopped to think that a particular dick could be appealing, exactly; they’re just sort of—they’re there, right; they’re a nerve center, evolution, whatever shit—but fuck if Gladio’s isn’t goddamn gorgeous just like all of him; fucking thick and straight and straining, and Noctis’s mouth waters and goes dry in the same instant somehow, everything in his mind dulled to a noisy white radio groan—

“You know,” Gladio says, and the faintness of it—the breathlessness, the hoarse note, the tightness —stops Noctis’s throat and twists his spine; “I’ve been telling people for years that you were going to be the death of me.”

“Gladio,” Noctis grinds out despite the banging of his heart against the walls of his esophagus, against the roof of his mouth and against the skin around his chest. “Is there some part of ‘fuck me’ that’s fucking unclear?”

Gladio laughs—ragged, which Noctis guesses is a start, but—

And then leans down, all pure fucking heat and silken hair and far too persuasive mouth; all brain-obliterating kiss and gentle hands on Noctis’s knee, his thighs, his hips; one curls around his dick and then slips down to cup his balls and then glides lower, and the surge of blood to Noctis’s groin legitimately fucking leaves him reeling.

“Bear with me,” Gladio says, and the sensation of his fingertip sliding in is—indescribably fucking weird, but not bad-weird, just… “I promise you it gets better. Everything will be better.”

And if the words speak more than the direction of the sweat running down his chest, if they speak more than the shared heat between them, if they speak more _of_ the world waiting outside—then it’s just one gigantic _if_ that’s gonna turn to _when_ and then turn _is._

“Like I fucking care right now?” Noctis gasp-says. He just wants—he just wants to be close, closer, as close as it’s possible to fucking get; wants to be full and fucking overflowing; wants to be melting at the edges and running down Gladio’s fucking skin; wants to taste every part of him—

“I don’t want to surprise you,” Gladio says, so low Noctis feels it resonating against his throat almost more than he hears it; “except with the good parts.”

“All your fucking parts are good parts,” Noctis manages. Too honestly. Too truly. Too freely. He’s fucking _free._  “Stop talking and fucking do someth—” Gladio’s finger delves in deeper, and the feeling is so fucking bizarre Noctis just—squirms, and lets the breath leave him in a completely different configuration than he’d intended. “Ahh—”

Gladio’s mouth moves up under Noctis’s ear, then across the shell—hot-wet breath and a whisper of warmth as Gladio’s lips part, and then he nips the curve of Noctis’s ear gently, and somehow he’s fucking multitasking enough to be fussing around with both hands at the same time.

His fingertip presses back in—slick this time, and cooler, drenched in something, and the slide of it against the tingling nerves is transcendent and fucking torturous, and Noctis wants so much more.

Since words seem to have lost the slightest semblance of meaning in his brain, he tries to communicate that by rocking his hips down hard against Gladio’s hand—and gets himself a fucking choked-off noise from Gladio’s mouth, and the finger buried up to the bottom knuckle, and gods, that’s good—weird-good, but good—

Language returns triumphantly, and several words pop like tiny little pearlescent bubbles in his brain: Gladio Amicitia is finger-fucking him. That’s what this is. That’s what it’s called.

Shit. Just acknowledging the simple fact of that shouldn’t be hot either, but it damn well fucking is.

“Noct,” Gladio says, almost under his breath, and he leans his forehead against Noctis’s and opens his eyes just a sliver, and he’s biting his lip so hard it’s going white.

Noctis swallows again in an ultimately doomed attempt to get his throat to clear—it’s hard to do much of anything with even a remote level of fucking competence with Gladio’s finger up his ass, shifting slowly, dragging all these unprecedented fucking flares and tingles out of his unsuspecting nerves.

And the thing is—

He just fucking craves—

“More,” he says.

His voice sounds fucking strangled to his own ears, but Gladio’s next breath catches so hard that he must be doing something really, really right regardless.

Maybe it’s just something about the humidity of the room or some shit, because it takes Gladio three tries to swallow before he can get out a sentence: “You sure?”

Noctis grits his teeth and rolls his hips against Gladio’s hand—which, on the upside, gets his point across; and which, on the downside, almost fucking kills them both.

“Yes,” he says, “I am fucking sure, Gladio; would—you just—”

Gladio’s hand withdraws, and Noctis hears his traitor of a voice fucking whimper at the loss of the heat and the fullness and the friction.

Gladio distracts him with a long trail of wet kisses back and forth across his ribs, which sustains the frenetic rhythm of his breath and the arc of his ever-tightening spine; and then—

Two of those fucking fingers, pressed in slow, and it burns, and God, Noctis can’t fucking get enough—

“Yeah,” he gets out on a dry-mouthed rasp of an exhale. “Gladio—fuck me, come on—”

Gladio’s answering breath has a hell of a lot more laugh in it than he’d like. “In good fucking time, my king.”

He sounds good—swearing. He swears well. Why is that so hot?

Gods, Noctis’s so fucking doomed.

“You,” he says, “are the biggest procrastinator on the planet and it takes one to know one.”

Gladio’s mouth curves against his hip, right near the edges of the newest well of scars. “I have stamina,” he says.

“What you have,” Noctis says, fighting the urge to squirm when Gladio’s tongue flicks against his skin, “is a death wish.”

Gladio pulls his fingers almost free and pushes them back in agonizingly fucking slow.

“Only a little death,” he says.

Noctis knew that was coming. Or he would have, if there was a single fucking operable brain cell left in his skull.

Gladio apparently takes the silence as encouragement better than he took the actual encouragement, which is pretty fucking typical Gladio, actually, all told—but he’s still moving so slowly that Noctis thinks his heart’s going to burst into cardiac dreck and confetti, fuck—

Gladio drives in just a fraction harder the next time, and Noctis can hear him panting softly, which is also so fucking hot that Noctis’s head spins like a dervish, whipping the rest of him into the frenzy— he hooks his one arm around the back of Gladio’s neck and tries to haul him in, tries to drag him nearer, tries to get closer than the impossible closeness of this—

“All right,” Gladio says, so softly it barely registers over the machine-gun rhythm of Noctis’s own heart and the choking smoke-seethe of his breath. “Hold on.”

“I am,” Noctis says, tugging with his arm for good measure. It’s not even close to conscious—it’s just the mindless, knee-jerk, automatic argument. He really is just that fucking contrary.

And Gladio buries that perfect face in Noctis’s neck and laughs again, like Noctis’s shitty-ass personality is the best damn thing he’s ever seen.

There wouldn’t be much time to mull over how dumb Noctis is even if he wanted to, though, because on the next inward thrust Gladio slides a third finger in with the first two, and Noctis’s going to die, but it’ll be so fucking great; it’ll be a death of gasping, groaning, overwhelming pleasure drowning him in shuddering waves, and does it get much fucking better than that?

Every other conversation in the fucking cafeteria was about this shit. So how is it that nobody ever mentioned how fucking weird it is? But it’s weird in a—not-weird way. Weird when you try to get the whirling cogs of your mind to catch and stick; weird when you think about it instead of just setting your fucking body free.

Weird because it isn’t weird when you let go, and the instincts float your brain so high and so fast that you’re dizzy with it, and your nerves just fucking sing—like struck metal, like plucked strings, like joyful fucking birds first thing in the goddamn morning, when the sun summons them awake.

Nobody ever mentioned how wet it is—lube and shit aside; the sweat and the spit and the myriad other fucking fluids; his hairline’s drenched; his forehead’s dripping; there are tiny fucking sauna-pools clinging to the insides of his elbow and the small of his back and the back of his knee. And that should be gross, shouldn’t it? That should be disgusting. But it’s not; it just feels—validating. Grounding. Like he’s really fucking here; like this is undeniable, and his skittering heartbeat will keep a transcript of code bruises on the inside of his skin—

Nobody ever mentioned how fucking honest it is—how absolutely fucking bare you are no matter who’s still got his stupid, now-extremely-damp slacks still half-on around his knees. Because it’s not the speaking kind of honesty, or the skin-shown kind of naked.

It’s that you can’t lie to somebody this close. It’s that it’s past seeing, or learning, or any kind of sensorily-processed intuition. It’s that you can feel the fucking truth of somebody this close. You can feel what they are, who they are, what it means. And you can’t bullshit with your hips and your shoulders and your ribs and your fingertips the way you can when it’s the words alone, not when the heart beating against his own can never be anything but _fucking_ honest.

Not even Gladio could fucking fool somebody here.

So there’s no point even trying not to fucking scream when the next push of Gladio’s fingers grazes something that jolts Noctis’s spine with straight-up fucking magic kinds of sparks that shimmer to the end of every single fucking neuron.

“Gods,” Gladio whispers, and he’s smiling; you can hear it. “Noctis—”

“Shut up,” Noctis says, because the physical sensations alone are going to shred him, and if Gladio goes back to the rumbly-seduction voice thing, he may not fucking survive. Who was he, kidding? He’s long passed on. He’s fucking reborn and fucking died again.

“No,” Gladio says. The bastard. He kisses under Noctis’s chin, then down his chest; his hand withdraws— “You are so, so, so damn beautiful.”

He’s not. He’s not, and he wants to say it, but it can’t be a fucking lie. Not here. Not like this. Which means that Gladio, at least, legitimately believes it, and—

That’s not fair.

It’s the dumbest fucking phrase in the language, but that’s not fair—

It’s not fair how _light_ he grows at the mere truth of the words, how every pain it took to crawl through the icy shards and all the blood that he’s drawn to come to this, how it all’s just so fucking _worth_ it.

And—

…he’s not expected to control the fuck out of this, is he?

Nah. That’s not Gladio’s style. And that’s not Gladio’s intention, which is sort of the whole fucking point—the whole fucking reason he’s still here, sprawled out on the goddamn carpet, down an arm and up an aching fucking erection and an uncontrollably hot throbbing desire centered right around his ass.

This is something Gladio’s sharing with him—bestowing, to a certain fucking extent. Which isn’t to say he’s not getting his fucking exchange and then some; just that Gladio’s obviously in the driver’s seat here, which is probably exactly how he likes it.

Noctis’s done a fuckton too much driving in his own damn life lately, and he’s pretty sure this is exactly how he likes it, too.

Hard to complain regardless when Gladio’s sinking his teeth into his bottom lip and hissing through them at the intensity of his own fucking hand as he finishes with the fucking lube. The pulse in Noctis’s body keeps deepening—like his blood’s turned to paint; like his skin’s just a fucking palette for Gladio’s hands, his mouth, sensation—

Noctis half-sits up and reaches out to curl his hand around the back of Gladio’s neck—an advantageous position for yanking the bastard back down halfway on top of him, which is the best way to get him close enough to try to lick his tonsils. He’s just too fucking—him. He’s just too fucking Gladio, and Noctis can’t ignore it, and he can’t leave it alone. If somebody’s going to go around—or kneel around his own living room, currently, but whatever—looking like that, it’d take a stronger fucking will than Noctis’s to resist the urge to get that gorgeous mouth on his own damn skin at any cost.

“Come on,” he says into the kiss. “Come on, come on—”

Gladio draws back for breath; his eyelashes are a fucking marvel as they flick up. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” Noctis says.

Depending on how you look at it, that’s simultaneously a big fat fucking lie and absolutely true.

It’d be a pity Gladio’s so goddamn smart and nice and just if it wasn’t three-fourths of the entire pie of what Noctis loves him for. You can see it all in his eyes sometimes—the oldness that comes from it. The exhaustion. How tired you get from having to know what people really are, tired from knowing what life has in store for you, in knowing that some things are just meant to happen no matter how much they feel like a stake against your goddam chest, that you sometimes have to live on when your entire reason for living is cold on the ground, a sword jutting out of his goddamn chest.

Except he doesn’t look tired right now.

He looks happy.

He looks warm.

The flicker of comprehension gets replaced, though, by a darker gleam of something—hungry.

And then he plants one hand on Noctis’s collarbones, pinning him to the floor, and starts kissing down his chest slowly.

“You,” he says, “are fucking wonderful.”

Something jumps in the base of Noctis’s stomach at the F-bomb flicking off of those lips. It’s gorgeous. This is a disaster.

“Yeah fuckin’ right,” he says.

“I know I am,” Gladio says, and then he starts kissing up the side of Noctis’s dick, which is totally fucking cheating, because Noctis instantaneously forgets how to argue. He’ll be the first to admit that that’s really fucking saying something.

Noctis lets his head fall back and tries to drag breath all the way into the bottoms of his lungs—tries to think about capillaries and alveoli; tries to imagine molecules of oxygen dissolving in his veins. He tries to focus on the swell of that peculiar pleasure-good; on the tickle of Gladio’s silken hair against his skin; on the gentle slide of Gladio’s free hand’s fingertips up and down his thigh—

Feels—nice. All of it feels nice. And the fire’s nice; and he’s so fucking safe here; he’ll never get tired of not having to watch his fucking back every goddamn second. It’s beautiful. He wants this. This is all he wants. To be safe; to be wanted; to be loved—

“There you go,” Gladio breathes, dream-soft against his skin; a damp kiss on his inner thigh; one more gently-probing press of fingers, then—

Gladio sits up, shifts back, clasps one hand around each of his hips—

Noctis can’t help the urge to tip his hips higher up, even though he has no fucking clue whether that’ll help as far as the relative angles are concerned. Gladio’s right hand shifts, smoothes down Noctis’s thigh again, and then grasps his own dick and guides it towards—

 

Ohfuckohgods _oh_ —

 

The fit is too fucking tight—isn’t it? Can’t be fucking possible; can’t—

The way Gladio’s face scrunches up is the cutest fucking thing Noctis’s ever seen, which actually distracts him from the too-hot push and the first sting of the stretch, and—fuck—

The pain fucking sears right through him, straight up his spine, and he clenches his jaw and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to fixate on the thrillingly harsh note underscoring Gladio’s breathing —the slow, gratified groan that the pleasure wrings out of him, long and loud and slow—

And Noctis wants it—wants the pain and the too-much and the sweltering heat of Gladio’s body crammed in against his, pressing hard, overwhelmingly fucking invasive and so good—

The last gasp of space between them vanishes as Gladio’s fucking dick slides deeper in his ass, and even more fucking impossible than that is the way the slap of Gladio’s flesh on his makes him tremble.

He thinks he’s probably spent most of the last hour with his back arced like a fucking bridge.

Whether or not he’s gonna feel that tomorrow probably depends on whether he survives tonight.

And that depends on whether Gladio lets him, at the rate they’re going.

Gladio spreads his hand under the small of Noctis’s back—fingertips still damp with lube and shit, ever so slightly sticky, and the cool prickle where they meet Noctis’s sweat makes him shiver.

Gladio’s forehead knocks gently against his again, and there’s more sweat mixing all over the fucking place here, and that should be nasty, shouldn’t it? But it’s not.

“This,” Gladio says, eyes pressed shut, cords of muscle standing out in his neck—they’re so fucking gorgeous Noctis’s fingers settle over them without his permission; “I’m not gonna…” He opens his eyes and blinks them twice. “…last long.”

The curl in Noctis’s stomach is pure fucking magma; it yearns to manifest as either a groan or a slow laugh. By sheer force of will, he twists it into a feeble impression of a growl yet escapes with the throes of laughter.

The really weird thing is that laughing ever-so -slightly hysterically while you’re clutching on to another person who’s currently in the process of fucking you makes all of the sensations even more intense.

Is sex supposed to be this damn funny?

At least it finally fucking took his mind off of the background pulse of the low-scale pain.

He twists up enough to kiss the very smugly-grinning bastard over him again, biting down hard on Gladio’s lip for good measure. He garners a soft gasp and a less-soft shift of Gladio’s hips against his, which—

Fucking hell; it’s so damn big and so damn good—

Gladio was probably right, too, although a team of wild horses couldn’t drag saying so out of Noctis, right now or ever. This isn’t going to take long. They’ve both been so enflamed and engulf for the last, what, hour? Waves shot through with electricity keep cresting in the core of Noctis’s body, breaking hard and hissing outward to every last extremity, and they’re only getting taller as time ticks on, and Gladio hasn’t had any damn relief since they started—

Gladio’s right hand slides down to cup Noctis’s ass, and the left wraps itself underneath his right thigh, drawing slowly down until the dapple of fingertips against the back of his knee starts to tickle. Just as he tenses to pull away, Gladio starts guiding the bend of his leg—folding it up against his chest, then smoothing that way -too-fucking-talented hand all the way up the back of his thigh to his calf, extending it so that all of the muscles stretch right as Gladio rolls his hips, and… Fuck.

It’s no longer any wonder that everybody talks about this like they do. Noctis would talk about it like that right this fucking second if he hadn’t just about given up on breathing.

Gladio—in the apparently typical, schmoopy-as-shit Gladio fashion—dots feather-light kisses slowly all the way up the inside of Noctis’s leg. In the equally typical, too-smart-bastard fashion, he starts rocking his hips against Noctis’s in such a gorgeously smooth fucking rhythm that Noctis can’t give voice to any complaints about the stupid part.

“Good so far?” Gladio asks, speaking into the side of Noctis’s neck this time.

“Yes,” Noctis says, because it’s important to make sure he fucking knows that before launching into:

“Do you ever shut up?”

“You wouldn’t recognize me if I did,” Gladio says.

He’s probably right.

“Besides,” Gladio says, which he doesn’t seem to notice further proves the point, “I intend to keep telling you how exquisitely delicious you are until you finally cave and believe me.”

Breathing is getting to be a fucking challenge again. Something about Gladio’s lips; something about the unfathomable depth and immeasurable intensity of those fucking eyes. “You’re the one who knows what you’re doing.”

“I’m doing you,” Gladio says, lips grazing his as the words move them, “last time I checked.”

Noctis tries to growl, and Gladio starts to laugh, but then the hand in his hair starts to shift just as Gladio’s free one pulls on his hip, and it’s the work of a gasp and an instinctual twist to flip his body, and then—

Gladio starts kissing down his back, so fucking slow—

Gods, if that mouth on his skin doesn’t feel like fucking absolution.

Both of Gladio’s hands shift underneath his chest, lifting gently until he’s up on his knees, and he automatically sweeps his left arm in and props his weight on his elbow. Gladio’s voice washes over him from the base of his spine, pouring up towards his ears again, and how is it that the low purr under every syllable still isn’t getting old? “Is that okay?”

Doesn’t mean he has to say anything about it, though. “Stop fucking asking.”

He lets it metamorphose into a groan partway over the rise of his tongue as Gladio strokes both hands along the outsides of his thighs and then grips his hips and shifts forward and—

Fuck—there it is—

And this time—

No fucking around with the fucking; no damn bones about the boning; no… Noctis will work on that list later. Point is, this time around, Gladio gets right to the point.

He sinks in all the way to the fucking hilt and bends forward, aligning his torso with Noctis’s back— and the weight on him, over him, all over him—that feeling of being surrounded—is so dizzyingly good that Noctis’s breath sticks, and catches, and won’t shiver free even as he twists his hips back and upward to rub them against Gladio’s, which earns him a long, throaty moan breathed hot against the back of his neck.

Yeah, this isn’t gonna take too long.

Gladio’s right hand slips underneath him and curls around his dick.

And then Gladio’s hips retreat just far enough for the cold air to flicker through the space between them, and then he drives in again, and—

The core of Noctis’s body ignites so fucking bright that it sears straight through every last cell—tidal wave and pouring rain and gale-force winds and sheer fucking explosive force; a cavalcade of cataclysms all at once—

 

He’d scream if he could breathe; if he wasn’t just stark blue flame straight through—

 

Through a fucking _lance_ of warmth inside him as Gladio bites his ear and just calls out his fucking name like a benediction—

He’s never fucking come like this, and he’s not sure he ever will again, and that’s probably good, ’cause he might not live through a second round of this shit.

He blinks sparks and haze and whatever other shit out of his eyes after a couple seconds of focusing on breathing. When the miscellaneous obstructive shit clears, he finds himself half-cradled in Gladio’s arms, and half-still sprawled out on the carpet, generously splattered in cum.

“Shit,” he says, and even though he seems to have rediscovered his breath in the interim, his voice sounds pretty faint.

Gladio strokes his hair back off of his forehead—fuck how goddamn soothing that is; fuck how intoxicatingly comforting it feels.

Gladio leans down and kisses the bridge of his nose, which is disgusting, so Noctis makes a noise of protest and tries to wriggle away, which—

The warmth supporting Noctis’s head and shoulders shifts around a lot, and then Gladio’s clever hands are using paper tissues to mop up the worst of the spilt fluids, and if there’s an iota more surreality in store, Noctis’s not sure he’s gonna make it.

Also, his ass hurts. And it’s dripping. And this whole thing should be way more gross than it is, instead of weirdly kind of hot because of how the very grossness of it makes it sort of—intimate, and that’s—

 

That was just perfect.

 

Just fucking perfect—

 

Because it finally sinks in—

 

That he’s home.

 

∞

 

The afternoon light is gold – or maybe just white and it’s just fucked-out mind that thinks it’s gold – but, regardless, it is what it is and it seeps through the curtains of the room. The outside world’s noise shackles at the window, unable to enter, and Noctis wouldn’t have it any other fucking way.

There’s a warmth around him, inside him and _over_ him as he lies in the gargantuan bed—with the oh _so_ comfy sheets and the fucking _mattress_ and beneath the smoothness of the warm comforter. There’s a shift of weight, the gravity of his center turning – altering – for a bit and he opens his eyes once again to feel Gladio turn to him, golden eyes pinning him with a low-heat that promises to _never_ stop.

 

He’s not cold.

He’ll never be cold again.

 

There’s no more frost, no more gun barrels. He’ll never have to sink so low to survive.

 

He’s safe.

He’s warm.

 

The hand that raises itself to land on his cheek, tenderly – carefully – and trace the faint splotch of grey on it from a tumble in a forest in a time almost so long ago, it’s warm, and it smells of cedar and sandalwood and soot and everything that has reminded him of home—

He places his own hand over Gladio’s, and he watches as the amber-gold-whiskey eyes turn to liquefied sunsets and there’s a ragged breathing, a gasp, a choking sound and it’s up in his own throat, down the tracks that make their way down Gladio’s cheeks, through the lips that are bitten so hard to keep the sobs from escaping—

Because to let them out was to acknowledge that they were real, that they did happen, that they _are—_

His heart is both broken and repaired, as he pulls Gladio close with his arm and presses the man’s face against his bare chest, feels the tracks against his skin—

He doesn’t know it’s his own voice he’s hearing as they whisper words of comfort—

“Hey, shh, it’s okay, I’m here—“

As the man breaks down in his arms, finally letting himself feel so much _relief_ and _satisfaction_ and just the blessed rain of _hope,_ for all the years – the _decades –_ that Noctis can never imagine he’ll ever understand, he’ll ever have the time to feel and experience, to know what it’s like to see all that you are turn cold and rot in the ground and you know that you have to keep on living—

That sacrifice was good and all—

But to those that were left behind, to those that had to keep on moving forward, one step after the other, _one chance after the other,_ leaving the most important thing behind to decay under the snow and the soil, to those that would look forward and into the brightness of the sun and hope that maybe, just maybe—

 

That one day—

They’ll learn to forget the gaping hole in their chests—

They’ll learn to forget the smoke in their throats and up their teeth—

They’ll learn to forget the salt of the tears in their eyes—

 

And that a time will come, maybe in this life or the next, that they’ll never have to let go again.

 

If the arms around him grow tight – tight enough to steal the breath from his lungs – and if the sobs against his chest wrack and echo with an intensity that each and every permutation of who he was could feel it across all realities, and if the hurried whispered words of assurance, of ‘I’m here, I’m not a dream, I’ll always be here, you won’t have to let go, not anymore’, if those words were spoken with a slightly broken, raspy voice; if there are tears even in his own eyes and against his own skin and if he just feels so much of the love and the loss and the fear and the fucking bright hope—

 

Then only the golden sun light of Eos’ own star could know them.

Then only the reminder that this is no end, that this is no conclusion to the story, that this is _not_ the fucking finish line of the race.

This was the starting point, the beige-colored pages of a new chapter—

This was a beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While writing this chapter, I had to stand from my PC, walk to my GladNoct altar in my bedroom, kneel on the pew, pray to all the Gods that could hear me and fucking thank them for the existence of these characters and went right back up to write smut with their blessing. Hallelujah.
> 
>  
> 
> Epilogue will be up soon!


	7. keep running, keep rolling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> as always, everything comes full circle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was writing this to the song 'Bloody F8' by Aimer - which is also the inspiration for the chapter title when my playlist took me to Luna's theme for the game and it's just--
> 
> It fits so well.

 

> **epilogue:** keep running, keep rolling

* * *

 

  


 

 

He’s sitting on the foot of a bed—buck fucking naked, and it’s cold, but he can’t seem to pull the blankets up enough to cover any of his all-too -exposed skin; either they’re stuck, or he’s sitting on them, or they just don’t reach that far, and it’s frustrating as hell. He doesn’t really know why he’s naked, for that matter. There’s actually a lot of things he doesn’t know, at this point, but for reasons unknown to him — reasons he can’t seem to pull from his mind — he doesn’t really feel the need to look for justification.

Gladio’s there. Is it Gladio’s bed? He doesn’t remember; he remembers falling asleep on the bed, he didn’t really have the time to take note of each little thing on the bed that made it Gladio’s - all he remembers is that it was soft and warm and it smelled like Gladio, which meant it smelled like safety, which meant that it was okay to close his eyes with no fear of never being able to open them again for once. He senses that it is, though. He’s fairly confident about it, to tell the truth, which is sort of funny, given that he’s aware at the same time that he doesn’t know for sure; but the human brain is weird, so… whatever.

Point is, Gladio’s there, turning something over and over in his hands—a ball or a paperweight or something. Probably from all of the paperwork he’s not doing right now — does Gladio even have paperwork? What does a Grandmaster do, anyway? In fact, what is a Grandmaster? The questions are in his head but he doesn’t feel the intent to answer them or look for a response. Noctis can’t quite see - there seems to be a darkness lurking about, and it’s weird because it’s not the same darkness he feels when the sun goes down, it’s something familiar, at the back of his head, something just out of reach - but he’s not really worried about it.

What he’s worried about is the strip of skin exposed where Gladio’s shirt hangs open because the buttons are all undone. Noctis can see the inner edges of his collarbones, the curve of his large pectorals and the beak of the eagle-tattoo, the wide scar of a sword slash over his heart, and the angle of the intersection of his ribs, and his navel, and the fact that the fly of his pants isn’t done up, either. A deep, hot, hard, ine-fucking-luctable throbbing starts low between Noctis’ hips, and the contrast of that warmth and the freezing air is completely bizarre.

He realizes—way too fucking late, with a jolt like licking a live wire—that they were gearing up for reunion sex, only Gladio’s procrastinating.

Fucking typical. Or not typical. Maybe both.

The darkness around them seems to react to his thoughts, their billowing smoke curling around him closer. There’s no sound - there’s nothing in his ears except for the sound of the tossing of whatever the fuck it was in Gladio’s hands - but there seems to be a... _calling._ He doesn’t know where it’s coming from. In a way, it almost seems to come all around him. There’s no recognizable gender to the voice, it’s not gruff and male-sounding or high-pitched. In a way — it seems like it’s just the idea of a voice that’s echoing around him and an _actual_ voice. He doesn’t really know how to explain but the sound starts crawling closer—

He doesn’t make out the words but the hisses are not pleasant. There’s a shiver running up his spine.

Noctis hauls as firmly as he can on the nearest fold of the sheet - one of the few things he can see, but it doesn’t budge. In glaring at it, he notices that there’s rust running in thick, dark lines all down the inside of his right arm, from elbow down to wrist down to the finger where the signet ring - the Ring of the Lucii - is.

Maybe it’s not rust. Maybe it’s blood.

 _You could have saved us!_ An image of a girl flickers through the smoke — he doesn’t know her but something tells him she’s Insomnian. Gladio keeps tossing that little ball from hand to hand. _All you needed to do was to do your duty!_

Another image flares up after the girl recedes into the darkness — it’s a tall man, dark grey hair seemingly black in the inky darkness. Blue eyes glare at him with hatred and pain. The torn uniform of a Kingsglaive decorate his chest. Blood is running down his eyes. _I died to protect her, but it was all for nothing. You killed her!_ Glaive Ulric screamed at him, the corners of his mouth are torn and a hundred bees escape from his throat.

Noctis wants to answer, to tell him that he didn’t. He didn’t kill this - this _her,_ whoever Ulric meant. He wants to throw up as little tarantulas slither out of the decaying mouth but nothing comes out, his lips remained resolutely closed. No words make it to the smoky air.

 _Thousands, dead. Innocents. Fathers, mothers. The children, Noctis. The children._ A voice echoes from his side, old and weary. He turns his head and stares straight into Clarus Amicitia’s face - or whatever was left of it. A big chunk seemed to have been ripped away, leaving an inky black mess where his brain should be. The only remaining eye looked at him. There were tiny hundlegs swimming in the sclera. _If you had been king sooner, none of this would have had to happen._

There’s a deep laughter coming from the lit area. It’s Gladio, still tossing the fucking ball.

Another voice starts at the other side. _She had so much faith in you. We had so much faith in you._ Ravus Nox Fleuret was pristine, even in the darkness, whatever he can see of the white armor still shining. His silver-blond hair was neatly combed back, quite unlike him. His eyes, though. It was Luna’s eyes that looked at him beneath silver brows. _My faith in you was misplaced._

No - it wasn’t, right? H-He managed to bring back the light, right? Hadn’t he? Hadn’t he saved the world?

 _Saved the world? Preposterous._ A familiar voice bit at him in between the specters. It’s a voice Noctis knows _intimately._ His father steps into his vision. He looks exactly the same - the last time Noctis saw him, on the steps of the Citadel as he and his friends made their way...somewhere. Somewhere important. Maybe. The silver horn in his father’s hair gleamed bright, the familiar blue eyes looking at him, similar with his in almost every respect. There was no love in them. _You failed me, Noctis. You failed us all._

He wants to say something, to counter the accusations but his voice doesn’t come, his throat doesn’t make the necessary sounds, his lips are glued shut. Blood runs down from all their eyes. It’s relentless and unending.

His hands are turning red, blood is pooling out of his skin, his pores, under his nails. It’s not warm. It’s cold. So cold. So goddamn cold.

Maybe that’s why Gladio won’t touch him. The damage was bad enough—nothing sexy and attractive and worth loving about scars and blood and cold, cold fucking black steel. There’s a weight to the ring, it starts burning into his sins and the voices echo loudly in his head, the bleeding won’t stop, please, make it stop—

And with the truth of what he’s done laid out in one long smear of untold stories right on top of it—

The disappointment - the crushing ice of the hurt and the pain and the regret - hits him like a sledgehammer to the fucking sternum, and he almost doubles over.

Nobody is ever going to want him. Not now. Not like this. Not anymore.

“I don’t know,” Gladio says, and his hands keep shifting so fast. The ghosts are gone. The blood is gone. It’s just the two of them in the darkness— “I don’t suppose I really know anything. That’s the cruel thing, for us—for humans—isn’t it? We think we know so much, we create and we destroy and we think ourselves gods and we know it never ends well for us.”

Noctis’ hair keeps falling in his face no matter how many times he pushes it back. Without his consent, his lips open and words he did not allow come spilling out. “That’s ’cause we’re all a bunch of arrogant little shits.”

“Arrogant normal-sized shits, surely,” Gladio says, and something kind of like a laugh scrapes up Noctis’ throat, and—

Gladio’s  hands part. The thing he’s been playing with is a frag grenade.

He hooks his index finger into the pin, jerks it out, drops the little curl of steel on his lap and tosses the body of the bomb to Noctis.

“Catch,” he says. Gladio’s eyes are not gold. They’re black like the darkness around them. There’s no whiteness to it - iris, pupil, sclera, all black. The smile on his face is demonic, blood marking the edges of his lips.

He doesn’t know how, but he knows what the blood tastes like.

It tastes like guilt, like sin.

Noctis fumbles and tries to twist out of the way, but then it’s cradled in his right palm, clanking softly against the ring—that fucking hand just never knows what’s good for it; some part of him likes following orders, doesn’t it? It just makes it so much easier to find someone to blame.

“Shit,” he whispers.

Two—one—

The thing is, you can never hear the sound of shrapnel tearing through the skin, because the explosion itself is too deafeningly loud; and you can’t see through the burst of white. Gladio’s insidious smile cuts through it all, sears itself into his mind.

But you can feel it.

You can feel the shards like teeth digging into your flesh and dragging back, ripping holes and gashes, and the heat melts your skin and cooks the meat of you all in one fucking instant—

Over the roar of the fucking air shattering around the impact—a spitting rattle of machinegun fire and the thud of a distant explosion, and isn’t this Insomnia? Is that what it’s fucking come to in the time that he was—?

Where the fuck is Gladio?

Where—

He jerks awake with a scream clawing its way up his throat, left arm half-extended with the impulse to reach for—

The ordinary, pale white ceiling greets his vision. Or it should have been pale white if not for the amber lamp open to his side.

The cry feels like a knot of fucking brambles and razorblades as he chokes it down and swallows it whole. His breath shudders out of him in sticky fragments; it feels like there’s a cord around his fucking neck. He stares at the wall, stares up at that one crack in the paint job, and forces his muscles to relax—one by one; one part of his stupid, shitty, broken body at a time. Neck— shoulders—back. Hell, that still hurts.

He looks down at his left hand and slowly curls his fingers in towards his palm. There. He turns to the right, there is no ring on his finger and he does the same.

That works. That’s a start. He’s in control of those.

He counts out five-second inhales and seven-second exhales as the almost-silent sound of an electric fan turning from side to side continues; it ticks once as it turns to the left before smoothly following the opposite way. His heart’s banging so hard he doesn’t know how he’s breathing around it; it’s knocking at his ribs and jumping for his throat, and he just has to slow down—

Not real. None of that was real. He’s fine. Gladio’s fine. They’re both safe.

There’s the sound of a toilet flushing, movement, and a door he didn’t notice opens from off to the side. He’s still breathing fast - a little too fast for his liking - but he feels himself slow down as Gladio’s form steps through the open door, cleaning his feet on the rug below. The sight of his Shield - form large and gargantuan, the gold skin bare for him to see, from the lines of his broad shoulders down the slope to his small waist to the roundness of his buttocks, it swipes at the vestiges of his nightmare, returning them to that part of the mind where he can’t actively recall them. His hair is undone, the length of the dark brown waviness reaching his shoulder blades. Noctis’ breath hitches.

Hearing the sound, the man turns his head and meets Noctis’ gaze. The scar running from forehead to cheek curve a bit as his eyes smile the same time as his lips. The darkness still vivid in Noctis’ mind has been drowned out by the warmth in gold-amber eyes.

“Hey,” Gladio says, voice low and the treble of it pools in with the growing calm in Noctis’ chest. A blanket is raised and Gladio’s form slips under the sheet. He doesn’t waste time turning and attaching himself to that muscled chest, his face pressed against the beak of an eagle cleaved by a fading scar. He breathes the scent of cedar and sandalwood in, not hiding the way his body shudders after. A massive arm wraps around his waist and pulls him closer, tighter, and Noctis sighs out, doesn’t care if it sounds exactly as mushy and relieved and content as he’s actually feeling.

The returning sigh from Gladio also helps, somewhat.

“You okay?” Gladio asks, and Noctis could feel the raspiness run from under the skin his nose is pressed against. A thumb draws shapes on the small of his back. He twines his legs with Gladio’s, runs his toes down the underside of the calves. The slightly rough texture of Gladio’s leg hair isn’t annoying - it’s soothing against his skin.

“Yeah.” He breathes out, lips mouthing at the eagle’s eye. He feels something warm press against his hair and feels Gladio’s chin against the crown. His eyes shut close as the warmth suffused in his veins. “Just wonderin’ where you went.”

There’s a smile now, and Noctis can hear it even in the silence. “Had to piss. Sorry, princess.”

Noctis doesn’t tell him how he fucking misses Gladio call him that. He hated it with a passion, then. It always made him feel weaker than the other man, like he can’t catch up to Gladio. Funny how it took decades for him to realize what it really meant when Gladio called him that. The happy humming sound against his hair tells him that Gladio _knows_ already. Asshole.

Always so perfect.

With Gladio’s warmth pressed against his side and front, the softness of the sheets against his shoulders and the mesmerizing tune of Gladio’s humming — it’s not mesmerizing, he’ll never say that aloud even if it kills him — whatever remained of the nightmare had completely gone. Save for one detail.

The inky dark eyes and that feral smile.

Had this happened back then, in the presence of all of his friends, Ignis would be the first to tell him that nightmares were probably just figments of his imagination - all the thoughts and the fears he doesn’t really notice - ganging up on him while in slumber. The mind’s vulnerable in sleep, you can’t put up your shields, can’t actively distract yourself from the thoughts and the ugliness that’s just waiting for you to look back. When you’re awake, there’s always something to _do,_ someone to talk to, a myriad of distractions running around until you’re exhausted enough that when you fall asleep, all that greets you is the quiet nothingness.

Granted, Noctis isn’t really surprised by the nightmare. With what he’s gone through, he actually - sort of - expected more than that. Not that the most recent one was _easy_ to handle, but he wouldn’t be surprised if there’d be a lot of shit he’d need to get through once the fire’s over.

Then again, had this happen back then, Ignis would also tell him that it’s not as easy as all that, and sometimes things like this — age old demons and deep-seated terror — they all attack you at times you don’t expect. Maybe Ignis should have gone for a career in behavioral science instead of politics, it’d suit him better than all the stacks of paperwork, anyway.

“You’re thinking.” Gladio says, the hand on his back raised to thumb at the side of his jaw, to under his ear. Noctis looks up from the scar to the concerned face above, a few strands of hair down his jaw. His heart skips a beat. As expected.

“Yeah. Just— thinking. ‘bout what’s happened.” Noctis answers, watched those amber-gold eyes bore into his with so much softness, his legs had gone turned to jelly. He doesn’t even notice that the arms around him had grown even tighter. “Sorry.”

The corner of Gladio’s lips tilt up and it’s the most fucking adorable thing Noctis has ever seen in his life, including the time Prompto had worn a chocobo costume for his sixteenth birthday. Gladio presses their foreheads together, his nose against Noctis’ cheek. Warm breath fans out against the skin above his lips and Noctis moves closer. “Don’t gotta say sorry, princess. Not to me.”

It’s so warm—

How it just feels—

When Noctis hears those words, it just grows so fucking warm. Inside him and outside and under him. Everywhere. It’s the kind of warmth like how the sun feels on a winter day, when the cold bites at your skin and the ball of light in the sky just, sorts of, floods you with so much heat that the ice is repelled away. It’s the kind of warmth like how it feels when you hold a cup of steaming hot chocolate in your cold hands, when there’s a scarf thrown around your neck and a jacket on your shoulders as the snow continues to fall outside the window. It’s the kind of warmth that he feels when he holds a flask in his hand, the fire pooling inside - energy, life - just resting and reminding him that he can do this, he’s made to do this.

It’s not the kind of warmth he feels when Gladio kisses him deeply, the kind that burns itself into his soul. It’s not the kind of warmth that pools inside of him when Gladio groans sweetly and preciously and so damn fucking attractively over Noctis, when his entire length juts and trembles and shakes inside and marks him so perfectly. It’s not the kind of warmth that he feels when everything inside him ignites and turns to white at the touch of Gladio’s hand on his dick, the swell of a tongue against his, chest against his back.

It’s not the same kind of warmth - it’s different, softer, but travels just as deep, brands him just as strong and leaves him so unmistakably whole and unbroken and reborn.

It’s a warmth that sets its root deep inside him, affixed. Permanently.

“Okay.” He answers, because it’s the only thing his warmth-sludged mind can ever conjure at this second. “Okay.”

Gladio moves closer to press his lips against Noctis’, and it’s just two parcels of skin against one another, maybe slightly wetter than usual, it’s nothing extraordinary—

But it still feels so fucking good and fucking hot and fucking perfect. Still makes him feel so wanted and needed and _loved,_ and Noctis presses back, wanting to get that across, because he doesn’t think he can scrounge up enough of his vocabulary in any language to fully express the burgeoning charge trembling under his skin and over his heart.

“It’s nice here.” The words escape his lips, whispered against the other’s lips, and only the ink-branded skin hears him. Only the golden-eyed gaze hears him. Only the personification of everything he’s worked so hard to come crawling back to hears him.

And it’s funny and stupid and just so fucking typical of Noctis that he gets one moment of eloquence - one moment where his words are exactly what he wants them to be - when he’s crying and sobbing and trying his fucking best to convince the person he never wants to let go in his entire life to let _him_ go and move on. But now, in the aftermath, in the time after all that they had shared - the vulnerabilities, the openness, the fucking fears and feelings he never thought would ever see the light of day - after all that, the best he comes up with is ‘nice’.

Typical.

‘Nice’ could not make up for the striking _rightness_ in him. ‘Nice’ could not fully describe how being in Gladio’s arms - right now - just sharing this kiss, this moment, was everything he’s wanted for so long - so fucking long - and everything that he had already given up on, because sometimes, some dreams were just that - dreams - and it was safer and easier and far less painful to not hope, to _not_ dream and to _not_ look because looking meant acknowledging and acknowledging meant wanting and not everybody got what they wanted, but to finally have all that here, now, inspite and despite the surmounting odds - he fucking _died_ \- and it was just one chance after the other. ‘Nice’ could not compare to the inferno building and billowing and boiling over on the realization, the epiphany, that his feelings were okay, that they were validated, they were _wanted,_ and that Gladio shared them, too — that Gladio also die-for-you loved him; sylleblossoms on the window on a spring day loved him; old jazz tracks from a beat-up radio on a kitchen counter loved him; every fucking fantasy that he never admitted to fantasizing about, all of them true, kind of loved him.

Typical, for all those realizations, he can only come up with ‘nice’. The only thing his ass fucked mind can ever create.

But Gladio—

If the bright smile on his lips, the glow of the gold in his eyes—

If they meant what Noctis _wants_ them to mean—

Then—

“Yeah, really nice.” Gladio says, quiet, understanding, like he could see through everything Noctis was unable to say. The tightness of his chest is because of the stranglehold Gladio has him in. Maybe. Probably. Not really.

And it’s just typical that Gladio’s fucking perfect like that.

If the warmth is just a bit too much for him, if the quiet whispers of affection running from those lips after each peck against his were just a bit too much, if the slithered words that run across the pillow - the ‘my love’, ‘my king’, ‘my heart’ and ‘princess’ - were just a bit too much for him, then Noctis doesn’t notice or fucking care.

Noctis doesn’t know what time it is, if it’s afternoon or evening or even morning. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and he’s sure his stomach will be asking for recompense soon. There are still a million things he needs to talk about with Gladio, and he knows that there are questions gathering already in that sharp mind of his. But no questions come and Noctis doesn’t really mind if he skips dinner. He’s doesn’t have it in him to care about the time.

When his eyelids droop and shut, his nose against Gladio’s, one hand on the heartbeat beneath the scar and the eagle, cedar and sandalwood in his nostrils—

When he falls asleep to the sound of Gladio’s breathing—

The nightmare doesn’t return. There are no specters, no pooling blood and no black eyes grinning at him in the dark. He falls into slumber, and it’s all painted with streaks of gold and amber and whiskey.

 

∞

 

In the morning, when the sunlight cuts through the curtains, no matter how thick they were, they have breakfast in bed. It’s nothing fancy, just what Gladio could grab from the kitchen because Noctis was determined not to move away from the warm sheets and the heady scent of his Shield around him like a protective bubble. There’s a moment - in the seconds after he shakes his head at Gladio’s invitation to the kitchen - that he feels the tiny sliver of fear, of doubt, the questions of _what if I’m overstepping things? What if I’m being demanding? What if Gladio doesn’t like that - doesn’t like it when his_ \- what were they? Lovers? Fuck buddies? Soulmates? (he physically stops himself from curling into a ball of so much warmth at the thought of the last word) - _doesn’t want to do what he wants? What if I’m being bratty and he’ll think it’s not worth all this, that I’m not worth—_

But Gladio—

Fucking asshole he is—

Just leans over to kiss him deeply, a whispered ‘good morning’ in-between and a smirk. “You look so goddamn good. Like a fucking dream.”

He shrugs with one shoulder because this throat has gone somewhere outside again. Gladio chuckles, tells him not to move and walks to wherever his kitchen was, giving him a fucking _beautiful_ view of his Shield’s perfectly bare backside.

(He’s determined not to count the seconds until Gladio is back in his arms. Honest. Fuck. Okay. One. Two. Three…)

When Gladio disappears into the hallway, Noctis gets up on his elbows and lies back properly on the pillows. Gladio had been so wonderful and obliging of Noctis’ bumbling, from his words to his actions to even fucking sex, and he’s done it all with a smile and a kiss and those goddamn perfect words that were so trite and cheesy and just, everything he never knew he _craved_ \- like a man craves air - to hear.

He never—

He never expected it to go like this, just this perfectly.

He had expected to walk in and just - maybe announce that he’s alive - and probably...disappear...somewhere.

He had not expected to feel this...fucking _wanted._

And—

He’s sure, as sure as water is wet and fire is hot, that the other had questions, so many of them. He knows that Gladio would want to talk and, thing is, Noctis knows that they _have_ to talk. Not just about what happened to him, to where he’s gone in the last eight years but also about them - about yesterday, about the cavalcade of warmth and heat and joy in his chest, shooting one after the other like goddamn fireworks. The normal, rational thing is to talk - to communicate. They’re never gonna get anywhere if they don’t talk this out--

And if they don’t talk, it’s going to create issues and it’s going to rot and fester at whatever they shared like it’s inevitable, like it’s fucking obvious at the rate Noctis is going with whatever he touches turns into ugly, decaying—

Well. He can save the doom and gloom for later, when it’s actually required, so he doesn’t have to scowl another monologue from the pit inside him. Anyway. He knows the challenge at hand, and it was to look Gladio in the eye, open his mouth and _talk._

But the problem was—

The thing was—

Like everything else—

The obstacle here was Noctis.

Not because he doesn’t want to talk - he _wants_ to talk about it - but, at the same time, he’s also _afraid_ to talk. It’s not because he wants to hide things from Gladio, it’s not that and it’s not like he _can_ hide things from him anyway. Gladio will just look at him with those eyes and he’s turned inside out like a fucking coat in a washer.

It’s because the memories are still too fresh—

The snow is gone but the feel of them is still too real—

That, for each time he blinks and closes his eyes, there’s still the lurking fear that the moment he opens them again, what he sees will be the hailstorm and the blizzard—

The trooper’s blood is still fucking warm on his hands and the press of a barrel of a gun against his cheek is still far too cold for it to be anything else but real.

The idea of talking - of actually voicing out those things to Gladio - of moving his lips to form the words _terrifies_ him. The idea of giving voice to the hours and days and _years_ spent trudging through the snow has him trembling, like the fucking snow is actually there, like it’s around him, covering him in a sheet of ice so thick and so dark that his scream is caught in his throat. The idea of recounting what he needed to do to live, pulling out a sword out of a trooper’s chest - almost or probably exactly the same way his father had plunged the blade into him - ripping the coat out of rigid, dead arms and feeling the blood against his own clothes, down on to his skin and knowing that he _has_ to, if he wants to go home, that he _needs_ to has him feeling that the blood is still on his chest and on his arms and inside him. Even the fucking memory of Snow pressing the gun against his cheek has his hands shaking, the mind-numbing terror, the permanently replaying image of his head bursting into a crimson flower still as vivid as the steel against his cheek.

It’s too soon, far too soon and—

Noctis can’t—

Not yet, not now—

Someone, please—

There’s too much blood—

The sound of footsteps reach his ears, and when Gladio returns to the bedroom carrying two mugs in one hand a two bowls on a tray in the other, looks at him and the smile turns into a concerned frown—

When Gladio walks up to him, after setting the tray on the bed and the mugs on the nearby table—

When Gladio stands close, Noctis has to remind himself that it’s Gladio—

— and not the ghost of his father, arm pulled back, the sharp end of a blade pointed at him.

It takes a while for him to register that Gladio had sat down beside him, and that his hand was on his cheek. It doesn’t even take a second for his body to relax from the bow-tight tautness it had turned to, pressing his face into the wide, open palm. He takes one large, visible whiff, the faint scent of cedar and coffee and just Gladio and his shoulders are lowering from where they were bunched over his neck, his chest heaving, and his stomach returning back up from the floor where it had fallen. His eyes are closed as he presses his nose closer and feels the thumb trace over his cheek, and when he opens them, Gladio is a slightly blurry vision but the concern can’t be any clearer.

There he went - making things weird.

He doesn’t say anything about the brightness and the liquid gleam of those eyes. His lips open to apologize, though, because that’s good, right? To say sorry for making things awkward? To put into words how sorry he is for being a fucking failure of an emotionally well-adjusted person?

The thumb that had been grazing his cheek turns to press over his lips. Gladio’s smile is half-concern, half-fucking-pity (or maybe it’s not? Maybe it’s fondness? Maybe it’s love?). “What did I say?”

Noctis makes a questioning noise, blinking the miasma away until the curve of Gladio’s smile is clear. The man leans close, removes his thumb to kiss him tenderly. He leans back and Noctis holds himself from chasing after those lips. “Never say sorry to me, for anything. Alright, darling?”

His heart is back up in his throat and his throat is back up in his brain and his brain has long gone somewhere beyond the Vesperpool. His voice wobbles just a bit as he replies. “Yeah, sure.”

And Gladio’s beaming grin is just so—

It’s so _bright_ and _fond,_ outshining Eos’ own fucking sun - maybe that’s what Gladio is actually made of: just fucking gravity and stardust and light - and, fuck, that’s not pity, right?

That can never be pity, right?

Pity is illusion and misplaced understanding, things people say to stave off the awkwardness on the realization that somebody else might have it a little worse than them and just —

Pity can’t make those amber eyes flash gold, pity can’t make that smile so bright that ten-thousand Holy spells can never hope to match, pity can’t make the rocks and the glass and the sand in his throat ease enough for him to breathe again.

That can’t be pity.

Pity’s far too small, too narrow and too insignificant in the light of whatever that was in those eyes.

And it should be weird, right? As in weird-weird, the kind of weird that has you frowning and edging away and not good-weird, warm-weird, the weird that he’s feeling right now, at how they’re just staring at each other and that Noctis is dimly, slightly just aware that he’s naked under the blanket, that his skin is bare and in display, all for Gladio to look at, for him to rove his eyes from the crown of Noctis’ head down to the slight bush of dark hair running above his groin, half-hidden beneath the sheets. Thing was, Gladio was just as naked, as bare, as he sits on the side of the bed, left leg curled on the surface while the other extends to the floor - all muscle and ripple and gold skin, dark hair askew and over the crest of one shoulder to tumble down halfway on his chest and everything Noctis braved an entire continent with nothing but a measly coat and a military torch for and his breath hitches.

There’s the faint touch of Gladio’s hand slowly lowering, from his cheek to the side of his neck, down his arm and finally interlacing with his fingers, but what Noctis notices is not the tactile grasp but that smile wrapping itself around his own heart and just - squeezing it to death, probably.

“I meant what I said yesterday,” Gladio said, and it’s just a fucking miracle how his gruff voice can sound so fucking tender. Noctis squeezes his fingers, “everything. I meant everything. I know there are still some things you can’t talk to me about, not yet. I know. I _understand._ Don’t ever think, even for a second, that a time will come that you can’t talk to me about anything, alright?”

And, well, shit.

He needed to hear that, didn’t he?

One point for Gladio Amicitia, perfection incarnate and world-class expert on anything Noctis Lucis Caelum. You know what, let’s just cut early - give the man the goddamn trophy already.

As if aware of his internal consternations, Gladio smiles wider, honest and understanding and everything he has not expected to find in the last eight - ten, eighteen? - years. “And if you want to talk to me, I’ll be here. I’ll wait, okay? I don’t care how long. When you want to talk to me, it’s because you’re _ready_ to, not before. You don’t have to be afraid of me growing tired of waiting. I meant what I said, I’ll always be here for you. I love you.”

Fuck—

Damn it—

There will never be a time that he will never not be ready for those three words. There will never be a time that his heart will never not soar as high as the fucking atmosphere could go and _beyond_ when Gladio says those words. There will never be a universe, a reality, that he will never not feel all his fears and terrors and insecurities - every little thing that had him tripping on the flat ground, that had him crawling on the snow with his bare hands, that had him braving death at every corner just for the possibility of this being that _one_ chance, the one after the next - that all of those things will not fade, burn and dissipate when those words sink in.

And that all his sacrifices to get from then to here were fucking worth it.

He squeezes Gladio’s hand, and tries to put all the things he can’t say _now_ in that gesture. But what he can—

What he’s _ready_ to express—

What he _wants_ to express—

He can, and he will.

“I love you, too, you idiot.”

The beating of his heart, in sync with his Shield’s - no matter what lifetime - echoes in his ears and in the pulsing of his lips in the searing kiss that follows his truer-than-true declaration soon after.

 

∞

 

In the hours that follow breakfast, Noctis has to be honest in admitting that he can’t seem to distance himself away from Gladio. He just presses against his Shield’s sigh, his lips always finding purchase on the skin just below his armpit where his scent is the strongest. It’s needy and embarrassing but he can’t _help_ himself. To be fair on his ego, Gladio doesn’t seem to be any better, an arm always around Noctis’ weight, and his large fingers pressing against the crease of his thighs and always pulling his face up with the other hand - just to kiss him until all the air is gone from the tracks of his lungs and they’ve bunched up, withered and dead, and, _oh,_ he’s still being kissed even in death. That...doesn’t sound so bad.

But the world doesn’t wait for reunions that have been long in the making. The sun still travels across the sky even when Noctis just wants time to stop and never move again.

When a shrill ring - maybe a phone or, well, something Noctis can’t seem to recall right now because, fuck, _those lips_ \- cuts through the air, Gladio finally leans back from marking the skin around his neck with another fucking hickey and everyone is going to know, now. Forget about disclosing his secret, the moment someone looks at him - fucking Prompto even - they’re going to know and Gladio will fucking stand there smug and devastatingly handsome and just so—

Well—

Noctis had always been a bit possessive of his things, hasn’t he?

Maybe it’ll be worth the embarrassment. Maybe.

He’s still determined to make Gladio pay, though. Sometime. Later.

The man pulls his phone from wherever his pants are on the floor, Noctis following the movement of his arm like he’s glued into the Shield’s side. Gladio doesn’t even _look_ like he’s complaining, adjusting his grip on his free arm to hold fast around Noctis’ waist. He answers the phone with his other hand, turning back to settle his large fucking leg over Noctis until he’s literally covered all over in gold skin. He’s not complaining.

“Amicita.” The other man answers as Noctis presses kisses against his chest. He feels fingers run through his hair. “Yeah. I’m here. Sorry. I’ll be making rounds in an hour, anyway. Got it.”

When Gladio ends the call to put his phone back on the table, Noctis tilts his head up. “Who was that?”

Gladio rubs his hand down Noctis’ arms, amusement in his eyes. “Jecht, my second-in-command. Was makin’ sure if I knew that a certain blond blue-eyed dolt harangued my guard into spending twelve hours _and_ eating three baskets of fries at the Crow’s Nest yesterday. Know something about that?”

In spite of himself, Noctis feels his cheeks redden as he grins at the man. “Maybe. I think I can be convinced to share my knowledge with you, for a price, of course.”

The amusement turns to heat as Gladio leans over and resumes mouthing at his neck, to the side of his jaw and — just, fuck the man, really. How can he ever expect to hold up any sort of defense when he’s pretty sure that Gladio has already mapped and memorized every patch of his skin that turns to mush at his touch?

The lips reach his ears, to whisper. “How about I offer my entire body? That good enough?”

If the shudder, and just the wanton - almost slutty - moan rising out of his throat was any indication, it was fucking more than enough. He whines, reaching up to pull that head back down and kiss him. The scruff of Gladio’s chin is scratching at his cheek, the rough texture has frissons of pleasure up his spine and, fuck, will there be a part of this man that will _not_ make him feel good?

Before Gladio could push himself closer and, well, shove his tongue even deeper, Noctis pulls back. He feels a bit of pride at the blown-out look in those wide eyes and the redness of those lips. He also feels a lot of frustration at what he’s about to say next. “Don’t you have things to do?”

He doesn’t know if he should laugh or not at the look of exasperation on the man’s face. The man growls. “Yeah, a lot of them, mostly _you._ ”

He also doesn’t pay attention to the very obvious way the chuckle in his throat is cut short as Gladio proceeds to remind him of today’s itinerary - which seems to be twenty items, all penned with his name. He turns his head away from the man, and feels the lips attack the other side of his neck now. “Gladio, c’mon. You got work— “

He also doesn’t pay attention to the thunderous hammering in his chest about how fucking _domestic_ this was, avoiding Gladio’s morning kisses - tasting like coffee and the granola they had for breakfast because, typical, Gladio was a health nut and he was a weirdo like that - and how he’s just reminding the other of his work. It's just - it’s so peaceful and warm and fuzzy, and he wonders if every day in the coming future will be like this. If he’s going to wake up and see Gladio dressed in his gear, hair in his braid and looking so fucking good and Noctis would just lie in bed, gazing up at him as his Shield leans down to kiss him, ‘good morning’ following after—

Maybe call him ‘darling’ or—

— ‘my love’.

— or ‘my Noctis’, which doesn’t sound as classical as the other two, but burns him just as deeply. Fuck, he’s ruined. He’s ruined and broken and destroyed, and the awful-not-really awful thing was that - he’s fine with being destroyed. He’s fine with being broken. Because Gladio will just fix him right back up, kiss the crevices shut and build him higher than he could ever hope for himself.

He—

He wants that.

He wants all of that.

Heart in his throat, Noctis allows Gladio to kiss him fully on the lips, before breaking away. “C’mon, big guy. You need to work. We can’t just lie here and do this _all_ day.” Even if he wanted to. Gods, even if that’s the only thing he’ll ever have to do for the rest of his life, and he fucking will, but he can’t. The world outside is waiting - and people are depending on Gladio, on people like him and Ignis running the country and — there are so many things far larger than them, right now. Even if he only wants to lock himself into a chain over Gladio’s heart and never leave.

“I _know,_ ” Gladio says, sighs actually, and it’s one hundred percent regretful and honest, like he’s aware of what he needs to do but he can’t, because Noctis is right there. The embers in Noctis’ heart jumpstart as he holds himself closer. “I know I got a job to do, but I want to stay here.”

The eyes are molten, like the Ravatogh’s once scarlet lava. “I don’t want to leave you.”

And, damn it, when will he ever _not_ get emotional at that? Maybe his fucking heart is broken - is it supposed to throb at every fucking word his - his lover - says? He doesn’t think so. Maybe he should get it replaced.

Or maybe he should just accept the fact that he was and will always be a fucking sucker for anything Gladio-related. No, he's never going to accept that.

“I could go with you,” Noctis says, quietly, timidly. Unsure. His fingers play at the edge of the scar by the collarbone. “if you want. If that’s okay?”

The gold eyes rove over his for a moment, over the planes of his face - and there’s still a bit of wonder, a bit of disbelief when he looks at Noctis, like he’s going to disappear any second and -

“Yeah, that’s perfect.”

* * *

 

It’s only later, after they’re done showering and — okay, so no matter what, Noctis will always be fucking weak to anything Gladio does, and he will stand by that he will not be the one to blame when the man ends up late for his own job when what should have been a ten-minute shower turns into a half-hour reminder of how it feels like to have the man’s tongue inside him, his trembling legs on those wide shoulders and he's pressed up on the wall and groaning out every fucking Astral he knows. He will also include that he will not be blamed even if he did kneel right after he had come, untouched, and his mouth decided to get really, _really_ friendly with Gladio’s fucking dick.

Anyway, it’s only later, when they’re toweling each other off, and Gladio’s hair looks pretty crazy when it’s half-dry and frizzy like that, does Noctis realize that—

“I don’t have anything to wear.” He says. Realizing. Then he glares at Gladio. “You ruined my shirt.”

Gladio, at least, has half a mind to look guilty even when Noctis soon remembers that he had allowed that to happen. “Well, um, I guess I might have a shirt that could fit you.” The way his face screws up in trying to remember is fucking adorable, he has to admit.

Just in time as the muffled sound of knocking reaches them. Gladio turns to the door, half-dressed with his leather pants and his boots on. Well, considering it’s Gladio and his penchant for shirtlessness, he’s pretty much _dressed_ already. Noctis waits, sitting on the bed and toweling his hair dry as Gladio makes for the hallway. He wants to follow, but he’s also pretty naked and, yeah, the only eyes he wants on him and his bits are his Shield’s. There’s the sound of a door opening and Prompto’s cheery voice cuts through the silence. “Hey, big guy! Is Noct up yet?”

And it’s just—

The last time he heard that - that line - was so long ago, before the fall of Insomnia, before the fucking roadtrip to Altissia.

He stands, and makes for the door just as Gladio returns, smiling a bit, clothes in his hands. “Prompto brought this for you, thought you might need them.”

His face red and scowling, Noctis mutters a quiet ‘thanks’ as he grabs the clothes, and he knows he’s not hallucinating when he hears his blond-soon-to-be-dead bestfriend chuckle. That is, until he feels a hand on his bare ass - large and warm and encompassing - and squeezes it, lips against the lobe of his ear. “You look so fucking good like this.”

He turns to the other, hissing. “Gladio!” He may have also blushed even more as the hand squeezed again and the voice against his ear turns its fucking seduction mode on.

“Later, then.” And Gladio turns his back and slowly walks out, giving him a full view of that wonderful ass in those sinful pants. Noctis hates him.

He dresses as quickly as he can, and snorts as the shirt in his hand is a black top not unlike the one he loved to wear so much back then. Of course, Prompto would know. Of fucking course. He puts on the underwear and the pants, and realizes that his boots are still outside - in the living room - and makes his way out, barefoot.

He passes by a mirror and looks at himself. He combs his hair back, tries to tame whatever part he can. He hasn’t really noticed the beard, doesn’t really itch, but it was getting scraggly. It’s...well, it’s not bad looking. Maybe if he trimmed it for a bit? Like a stubble or something.

Shrugging to himself, he exits the room and finds Gladio by the counter in the kitchen, hip resting against the ceramic top as he talks to Prompto, his tan skin distinct in contrast to the mahogany walls, just like how it was in the old Amicitia residence. Prompto, blond hair looking freshly washed, turns to him from his perch on the table and grins, blue-violet eyes going soft.

The blond raises a hand, as if to high-five Noctis. He considers, before holding the extended hand and pulling him into Noctis’ chest. The arms around him are suddenly tight and Prompto visibly sags, Noctis sighing against his hair. Gladio just looks at them with that small, fucking _fond_ smile.

“I still hate you.” Noctis says, words low as he pulls back to grin at Prompto. The other rolls his eyes. “Yeah, hate you too.”

He lets his hands fall from where they were around Prompto’s waist, but he doesn’t step away, their elbows still touching as he turns to Gladio. “I’m done. Where we off to first?”

Prompto turns to him. “You’re joining him on his rounds?”

Noctis nods, just as Gladio sets the glass in his hand down on the sink and grabs the shirt over the back of the nearby chair. “I usually head up the sepulcher first before anything else. It’s closer and...well, yeah.”

The look Gladio gives him has a world of meaning. It’s where they buried him - he and Prompto and Ignis. It’s where he had sat on, his fingers losing whatever nerves they have as they fall from his father’s sword, the ghosts of his ancestors ramming their blades into him, each stab like a fucking explosion of so much _pain_ that he almost blacked out in the middle of it. It’s where everything had ended for him, where Ardyn had sat on and jeered and Noctis had ascended, to his duty and calling. It was, at one point, both beginning and end of his journey.

“Oh, um,” Noctis begins intelligently. “Okay. I guess that’s reasonable.”

Prompto’s voice is quiet as he taps Noctis’ wrist. “You gonna be okay? You don’t have to go in, y’know.”

Gladio nods from his place, eyes boring into Noctis’. He takes a deep breath and— “I know. I guess it just sounds weird. But I want to. Go in, I mean.”

He doesn’t say that he feels a need to know, a bit aware of how weird this conversation was. Sure, the idea of visiting your own grave is, well, fucking macabre and morbid as hell, nobody really expects to be able to visit their own graves, but it’s not that - well, okay, he’s partly curious but it’s not really the driving force behind the need. It’s part, but not the whole. For some reason, for some reasons unknown to him, there’s something pushing him to visit, to see. Maybe it’s just closure? Or something? Maybe it’s just plain ole curiousity that he’s confusing for something else. Whatever it was, it was telling him to visit.

And, well, like they say, it’s faster to rip off a band-aid.

“You sure?” Gladio asks, just because it’s Gladio and Noctis loves him. Easy, huh. It’s suddenly easy to admit that. There are also sylleblossoms on the window sill. Correction, Noctis adores him.

“Yeah.” He nods, and smiles back, a small one but it’s true. Gladio looks at him for a moment, before smiling that perfect smile and walking towards him. He grips his chin and tilts it up and kisses Noctis, deeply.

Also, Prompto is there, not even half a meter away.

When Gladio pulls back, Noctis’ entire body is red and warm. Prompto’s grin can be seen from outer space. “I am _so_ glad I did not visit you guys last night.”

Noctis scowls at him as the blush refuses to go away. Gladio turns to the blond and, still shirtless, leans toward him. Due to Prompto’s size, and the table behind him, there’s nothing he can do but lean back and over the table as Gladio puts one hand on the surface behind Prompto and steps close. Noctis’ eyes are huge as Gladio basically gets up in Prompto’s face.

Prompto wasn’t grinning. His face had gone as red as Noctis’. Then, with a raspy voice that cannot hide the fucking lascivious smile on Gladio’s face, each decibel has his blood running to his groin - “Too bad. You could have joined us.”

The blond makes a choking noise and literally falls on top of the table, just as Gladio steps back and grins with far too much satisfaction, finally putting the shirt on and Noctis—

Well, fuck. He never thought that would have looked so—

Well. He’ll save all the thoughts that had gone pointing down south for a later date—

Because—

Prompto is all but a blushing, _stammering_ mess and Noctis—

He just laughs.

Because it’s typical.

It’s just—

It’s just his family—

and they’re fucking perfect.

 

He loves them all.

Even if they were fucking idiots, sometimes.

 

∞

 

The path to the throne room had long gone - Noctis knows that. He had been there, in his final moments, as the bite of the sword started to fade away, the vestiges of the pain turning number and colder as his vision flared and buzzed before him, as the shadows started creeping closer over the last image of his father’s sword in his chest. Then, he had felt it, the magnanimous pulse of light - like an outward explosion of an aria, the white blast running through within and without, the stone pillars cracking and breaking, the ceiling crumbling - everything faded to white.

He had seen it yesterday - which almost seemed like a year ago than a mere few hours - as he stood, at the foot of the plaza, boots under the stone steps looking up at the blue sky and seeing no towering skyscraper, no funneling light to project the Wall outwards. What remained were the base foundations of the fallen pillars, the tall columns. Stone against steel and glass, all covered by a sheet of green - moss covering the remains, like Eos herself hiding what had long transpired here, in the last almost twenty years.

He followed Gladio and Prompto as they walked through the rubble, on the footpath that seemed to have been built over the years, the worn ground detailing how many times people have walked this particular path. He looks up at the slope of his Shield’s shoulders and he breathes a little easier.

The path curves inward, partly through the remains of a double-arch, and his eyes take note of the fissures and slashes on the stone and wonders - had he done that? When he fought Ardyn? Had it been his sword that had cleaved it in two, the power of the Royal Arms crackling between his finger tips?

Prompto is humming beside him, looking about, although he does look back to Noctis a few times, maybe just to see how he’s holding up. Or maybe just to remind himself that Noctis was still there. He doesn’t really mind. After almost an eternity in the blinding iridescence of the Crystal, and the endless snow, it felt good. It feels damn good.

They come across an area where the lay of the land is flat, even, and the rubble are swept to the side. Before them, there was a large, dome-like structure, the grey of the stone walls smoothed over. There were fixtures into the dome - hole-like, maybe windows - where light seeps in. In the center, there were two massive stone doors, and the designs of them - the intricacies - has him reeling. Because the designs are so intimate, to him, who’s spent his life knowing the heraldry of the Lucis Caelum line. And it surrounds the doors, up to its corners and in between. Above was a statue - a woman - her hands clasped over her chest in supplication, looking up to the sky.

A royal tomb.

“Buddy,” Prompto begins, voice almost silent against the suddenly-loud pounding of his heart in his ears. Noctis turns to him, throat dry. “You holdin’ up okay?”

Noctis nods, turning back to the tomb. “Yeah. Just need to take that in for a moment.”

Gladio turns to him a bit, eyes soft and patient and he swallows, nodding at his Shield.

The silence is broken as the sound of footsteps crunch through the stones and the debris, and they turn to find a girl - maybe younger than him, them - approach them. She was dressed in black, with a familiar looking crest on the upper-left side of her chest, the same crest he saw on Auron and on Gladio’s shirt - the one he’s wearing now. Another hunter, he guesses. She raised a hand and waved as she approached, and Noctis turns to Prompto, who waved back.

“That’s Yuna, she’s one of Gladio’s hunters. Personally hand trained by the big guy.” Prompto says as Gladio walks to her and she nods her head. He can hear what they’re talking about - some security detail that sounds like it should be coming out Cor’s mouth than Gladio but, surprisingly, his Shield seems to be taking the job well enough, from what Noctis has gathered. The hunter - Yuna - turns to look at him for a moment, probably wondering who the stranger was in between Gladio and Prompto, and her eyes (blue, the other one green, cool) assess him for a moment before returning to the Shield. “She usually gets assigned to watch over the tomb.”

Something about that pricks at him. “Watch the tomb? Shouldn’t the hunters be, I don’t know, hunting?”

Prompto shrugs. “Technically, but with no standing police force, the hunters are, more or less, the police. They had experience dealing with Magitek troopers before the world went shit. It would have been Aranea’s mercenary corps but there were some debate in the senate about having an ex-imperial hold the job, even if she pretty much was the one of the reasons why most of those senators are still alive.”

Noctis frowns slightly as Prompto continues. “Anyway, Aranea’s fine with that. Said that she’s got more things to do than sit around babysitting prissy crybabies.”

There’s a chuckle and Noctis is amused. Of course, Aranea would say that.

Gladio and Yuna continue to talk off to the side, with Gladio looking up at him every now and then. Noctis makes a show of rolling his eyes before smiling back, cherishing the smirk he gets in response. Yuna looks at him again and he turns his head away, feels his cheeks reddening.

There’s a shrill ring - a chocobo squawking - and he turns to Prompto, who’s pulling his phone out of his pocket. “It’s Iggy. Give me a sec.”

Noctis smiles, grinning. He’s excited to see his former advisor once more, but— “Don’t tell him about me, yet. I want to surprise him.”

Prompto looks back at him, his eyes going soft. “Alright, but don’t blame me if he starts flinging knives at you. He tends to that when he gets flustered now.”

The blond turns away to put the phone to his ear, stepping to the side just a bit. Noctis’ honestly excited to see his their bespectacled friend (well, for some and more for the rest) but the rest of the desperation, the gnawing fear has abated. Maybe it’s because of Prompto - or maybe it’s because of Gladio, and how he had assuaged most of those fears, that he’ll always be wanted when it comes to them—

He looks back to the tomb, now that he’s not distracted by his Shield or by Prompto. It’s not unlike the other tombs, but there’s something calling him to it. Gladio turns to look at him as he steps forward, but he doesn’t really make a move to stop Noctis. Anyway, he just wants to get a closer look.

Plus, there’s still that sense of pull in him, all pointing at the direction of the tomb. It’s both familiar and foreign, like he’s felt it but only in edges and cuts and not in their entirety - yet there’s also the feeling that it’s fine, it’s okay and it’s not going to hurt him.

He rubs his hand over his other arm, seems to be a cold morning. Funny, the sun was shining brightly.

Noctis steps up near the door, looking up at the statue resting on the alcove above the door.  From his position, he could see the statue’s face - their likeness. It’s not really bringing up any particular person, just the generic feminine details - softer cheeks, a slightly less sharper jaw and long hair hidden beneath the cowl. The statue’s eyes seems to be looking at him, though.

It’s a pretty stupid thought but there it—

Oh, and the door is open. Interesting.

He steps in through the threshold, his hand on the other door, and it opens silently. New, obviously. Or as new as this was to _his_ own perception of time. There was a lock, but no key. He doesn’t know where he even lost the key to the royal tombs - he doesn’t recall having it on his person when he woke up on Angelgard. The inside of the room is stony, the walls low and set. Light seeps in through the hole in the ceiling of the dome - takes him a while to note that it’s the shape of the Crystal. Huh.

He rubs his arm faster, and there’s a puff of white as he breathes out.

There are statues set against the walls, similar looking statues to the ones in the other royal tombs, but the stone of these were still in their natural grey - compared to the corroded green, the sword and shield in their hands long rusted to the passings of time. There are areas of the tomb where the shadows are thick, in the little corners where the light can’t reach them and it looks inky - like if he steps through, he’s going to get sucked in. He almost _wants_ to try that out but he gets distracted by the cold, raising his hands to his mouth and starts blowing warm air into them.

At the center of the room, there’s a stone effigy, set to lie horizontally on a coffin, resting on the dais installed into the floor. There’s a sword in its hands. It’s Regis’ sword.

Suddenly, there’s a hissing coming from the darkness, and Noctis’ head turns to the sides so fast his neck makes a sound. There’s nobody there, but it feels like _something_ is inside. The light looks like it’s about to dim and he—

“Noctis!” Gladio’s shout reaches his ears, and he turns his back—

Just as he feels the presence of something, someone, beside him—

And the doors of the tomb are slamming shut just before Gladio could reach him, his hand still outstretched.

There’s the sound of pounding against the stone doors, the thump and the muffled calls of his name, hears Prompto over it and a feminine voice - maybe Yuna - melding with Gladio’s.

He makes to run for it when he shivers again, and watches as ice and frost grow in between the line of the doors, melding them shut and - fuck, no - this can’t be, right? He’s still not in the Rift? He’s home, right?

There’s that _call_ again, that presence, that—

He turns, his eyes roving over the glacial sheets growing on the steps—

Looks up and—

Suddenly, it’s both expected and unexpected.

And it finally sinks in.

He remembers waking up in the Rift, alive.

He remembers the _icy_ wind stopping, halting its slow torture on his battered body as he almost shivers to death.

He remembers the tracks and the pile of _snow_ plowed to the side, as he wakes up from his slumber inside the abandoned Magitek carrier.

He remembers the snow - the fucking _ring_ in the _snow_ and—

Fucking _Snow_ and his daughter, Claire and their _icy_ blue eyes—

The sylleblossoms against his face and the—

The fucking girl next to him at the fountain - the girl that stole his last hundred-gil - with her dark hair and her mischievous smile and the fact that—

When she turned to smile at Noctis, her eyes were always closed in such a familiar manner, leading him to bump into Prompto and—

Damn it. God _damn_ it. Suddenly, it all makes sense. It makes all the fucking sense in the world. How the _call_ feels so familiar, realizes that it’s the same thing that has had him going, moving forward, onwards, to find his fucking way home even when there was nothing left but despair and hopelessness, always looking to the distance - the fucking _distance_ \- and knowing that home’s just beyond that valley, over that ridge and across the fucking sea and he’ll be there soon, if he just keeps walking, just keeps breathing and just keeps keeping on.

Suddenly, it makes all the fucking sense in the world for how Noctis and his ass-fucked soul made it from then to here and to now, that same calling he’s felt in his bones the moment he had awoken.

“It was you all along, wasn’t it?” He asks, his voice trembling slightly at the chill.

Before him, hands clasped in supplication - just like the statue - her dark hair like a cowl and the trace of a secretive smile on her lips, Gentiana nods. The white cloth of her dress, against the black, flutters at the cold breeze. Beyond her lay the endless, infinite snow. The chill and the fog rushed against the fields, bringing hail to the air. He turns back to see nothing but snow, and the crippling fear that he's back in the wasteland has him falling to his knees, shivering.

“Hear me, O King of the Stone.” She says, the foreign - almost alien- accent tilting her words, wispy and subtle like the ice around her. The words still cut through the roaring of the wind in his ears.  “The King has done well to bring the darkness to heel. Light has been restored to the world, and all shall prosper in its radiance.”

The wind shifts around him as he tries to stand - when had he fallen to his knees? - because, it sinks in, the realization, the questions, the _whys._ “Gentiana, why? Why am I alive?”

The smile does not shift from her lips, not when she steps closer, untouched by her own vicious storm. This - this was what the ancients had feared, why Shiva was spoken in terror, in the ferocity of her disdain for them - before Ifrit had thawed her heart with his benevolence for mortality. “The Star has come to a new dawn. The Age of the Six has long receded to time. Man will take his first step, bearing his will for life and nothing else.”

She extends her hands outward, and the wind and ice tumbles towards her. Noctis ducks his head as the cold strikes through him, all but frozen in his place. Gentiana is brought to the air, above the ground where she’s covered in light, from deep within and it tumbles out, bright and purifying—

His eyes do not falter, watches as the light fades - the wind and the chill and the ice - all of it -  _stills_ and what stands before him is—

Not the dark-haired Messenger—

But the Glacian herself.

Shiva.

Diaphanous and ethereal, she floated before him, her snow white skin and the ice molded into jewels across her form, the infinite white of her hair and the alien gleam of her eyes, down on Noctis. “O King of Kings, he whose shoulders have held the fate of the world, has fulfilled his destiny. He has granted my love release and sought the conclusion of our shared past.”

The hail and the wind - the tiny snowflakes - are frozen, mid-air and perhaps even in time. Shiva’s words echo in the silence around them, inside his ears and under his skin. The frost that had begun to grow on him, that had started to cover him, no longer feels cold.

He looks up at her, and into her eyes - the color of ice in deepest night. “I had to. It was the only way, you know that. I’m sorry for what you had to do, to end it.”

Shiva looks at him, there was no emotion in her eyes, but the other-worldliness was there, the timeless look of something not human, of something far older than human history, perhaps as old as time itself, it's all pointed at him - maybe even _through_ him - and the sheer, almost ice-like trails around her shifts as she extends her arms towards him, not unlike on the train to Gralea, but what comes out of the light is not the Trident—

But a sigil. A mark. A snowflake tinged in blue, glimmering. It floats in the space between her hands. Her voice slithers through the cold. “The King has earned the Frostbearer’s love and faith. Man has earned his new dawn.”

And he closes his eyes, unable to stop as the realization sinks in. There's a pulsing, under his skin, but it's not just a single heart - it's a million countless heartbeats across Eos, beating, breathing, _living._ The heartbeats of those he had saved, and those borne from his sacrifice.

He did it. He’s finally done it. He’s saved the world. All those nights - those _years_ of darkness - they’re gone, erased and returned to where they had come from. He doesn’t know where, doesn’t even care. It’s just— it just feels so worth it now. More than his family, more than being alive. He doesn’t have to lose anyone ever again.

He blinks away the crap in his eyes, looking up as the wind in the distance fades, and everything clears out and there — behind Shiva, is her corporeal form. The corpse is still in its same position, fallen to the ground - massive and gargantuan - a dead face looking up to the sky, hand open, as if reaching out, towards the peril and danger her love has been entwined with, toyed by the daemons that had plagued Ardyn from the beginning.

“Gentiana…”

He stands, the ice no longer bothering him. Shiva remains afloat, her lips open a sliver to speak. “The Six have fallen to an eternal slumber, the Star’s protection and fate now in the hands of mankind. Our blessings go with them, to the advent of a new beginning.”

His eyes close, not by his own will but he sees it, in his mind, like an image projected into his brain. Everything is black, like the night. No moon, no starlight - pure darkness, but then- there! To the distance, there's the faint ray of yellow and slowly, it turns to orange and amber and burns red, the swaths of blue escaping the vermilion folds - a sunrise on the horizon, and setting light to the world and the endless seas, blue and green against the reddish, _hopeful_ dawn. “The Landforger has endowed mankind with his blessing, to raise the peaks from the earth below, for man to build a new home for himself.”

The recently discovered islands, the lands growing from out of the oceans. Noctis’ breath hitches, as the image turns to the rising waters, washing over the land and returning to the folds, and like magic, life grows - in the buds of the soil, the small green rushes of grass, growing into spires of trees, blooming and turning to the sun as it crawls over Eos’ sky. “The Tidemother has given her blessing, with which life is born anew, and from the earth of the Landforger does she raise mankind. Her maelstroms have gone, her ire shall never drag life to their depths.”

The image shifts, and Noctis follows, even in his mind, as the Glacian’s words take root inside of him. What he’s shown is the familiar edges of the Disc, the waters of the new lake and the pleasant rain across Duscae. “The Stormsender has judged man as worthy and has stilled his tempests. Know, O King, that none shall fear his displeasure ever again.” And there, flying above the land, like an imperious god, Ramuh - the shock of his hair and the intricacies of his coat - wielded his staff, and looks to him - divine yellow eyes - and nods, as he slowly - like mist - faded into the air, the gentle rain and the slight rumble of thunder washing over the earth, from the Alstor Slough all the way to the Rock of the Ravatogh.

To the distance, the flowers of the Ravatogh shook in the wind, and _bloomed_ in the gentle patter of the rain. Noctis opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, not even a single syllable as the flowers grew by the number, in a palette of so many colors - reds and blues, purples and yellows, innumerable colors - until nothing remained of the volcano that settled there. “The King’s benevolence and sacrifice has earned the Pyreburner’s forgiveness, his broken heart reborn by the King's love for others. No longer shall the fires of his wrath wreak across the lands. He has forgiven Solheim, and has forgiven all of mankind.”

“And Bahamut?” Noctis asks, his voice finally working. Shiva doesn’t smile, but her voice does, as she holds the snowflake aloft.

“The Bladekeeper has long held faith in mankind, even before the slumber of the Six, long before the darkness and the war. He has set the will and the fire, to pursue the noble ideals bestowed by the gods unto man. This will for life - this dawn - is his blessing.”

Then, there’s only one—

One more—

He opens his eyes, and looks at her. She - in the guise of Gentiana - had helped him all this time. She, who had stood by his side as he struggled to rise to his duty as King. She, who bore him Luna’s words and love. Shiva - who held only disdain for man but grew to admire and love them because of Ifrit’s kindness. She, who fought her greatest love in a song of ice and fire, for it was her love that taught her to love the creatures she once hated and she had promised to safeguard them forevermore, in memory of the Pyreburner's benevolence. She, who stood and walked by man’s side and dealt the final blow to release her love from his daemonic prison. She, who had not answered his calls for her, but continued to help him - in the little coincidences and the chances that he had taken, and, along the way, the realization of what his sacrifice had meant for the world.

To the people that had long learned to stand on their own two legs for once and _live,_ to not rely on gods or on divine blessings and just _stand_ and keep moving forward.

She had did it all, for him, because of Luna - because Luna’s faith in him had moved her heart, and reminded her of what made her love humanity in the first place.

“A-and you, Gentiana?” He asks, voice soft as the Glacian smiles. She extends her hands and he watches as the snowflake twirls, shines in the light, and slowly floats forward. It rushes to him and he can’t do anything but watch as it settles against his chest and light emanates from it. He scrambles at his shirt, fingers fumbling with the neckline and watches as the snowflake _melts_ into his skin. His hands are trembling as they fumble at his chest, heart in his throat at what’s happening—

But a growing warmth - not the cold - envelopes the blood under, suffuses in his veins and runs through his entire being. It dispels all the cold, leaving nothing but the mark on his chest, that seemed to pulse along with his heart. The million - infinite - heartbeats all coalesce into one, centred in the mark, reminding him of what he's saved, what he's died for. He looks up at her, mouth open.

There’s a crack. He doesn’t know why he hears it, but he does. It’s grows in strength, the sound of glass shattering - no, not glass, something far harder, _ice —_ and he looks beyond the Glacian, to her fallen corpse. There’s a line, weblike, running down the corpse’s cheek. The crack returns, travels down the nose and to the lips, to the neck.

His hand reaches out unconsciously, as if wanting to halt it - but what  _can_ he do?

And—

It begins - the collapse. The block by her cheek falls first, shatters into ice on impact. Then, slowly, the other parts of her followed - her nose, her eyes, her lips - they all fell, like dust in the wind, returning to the frost from where they had came. Her hand soon follows after, and even that soon falls, as Noctis stands - in a mixture of horror and _sadness,_  a great feeling of loss in his chest — as a wind comes to bring the fallen pieces back into the sky, into the storm, an upturn of a blizzard.

There was nothing left of the Glacian’s corporeal form, save for the snow and the chill.

“The Star begins a new chapter, and with the pages of history gone, so do the legends of the Six. In time, our kind shall fade like ice in the wind. Man will learn to stand for himself, on the Star we have long protected—  and face the Void that awaits all existence at the end of days.”

He turns to her, questions on questions inside his head. Was this her blessing? Was the Astrals’ demise her idea of a blessing?

“The Oracle’s love for the King knows no bounds, in this life and the next,” Shiva says - just like the first time she told him of Luna's feelings and he bites his lips, the beating of his chest far too loud - and there - unbelievably, _impossibly_ \- a tear runs down her cheek. It pools by her jaw and falls, freezing first before fading into the snow below. “The girl has renewed the Frostbearer’s faith in the King — and, in time, she has come to love him like the girl has. Her wish is for the freedom long denied to the Chosen, to give him the life he had long been robbed of."

The brand on his chest pulses.

"You are my blessing, O King of Kings.”

 

And it makes sense, then—

 

The beating of his heart—

The drawing of his breath—

Waking up in the Ghorovas Rift, alive—

Did he even  _deserve_ this?

 

“Why?” He asks, the emotion running through his veins. All the sacrifices he’s made to get to here. It’s up in his throat and out of his lips. “Why bring me back? Why did Luna bring me back? For what reason, Gentiana? Tell me!”

— and maybe he’d ask himself as to why he would question it. He had been given another chance, to find his way back home and learn that everything had changed after he had gone? What was the point in all of it? What was going to happen to him? Was there a catch? What’s he going to do, then— will he have to make more sacrifices for this life, for this blessing?

Shiva looks at him, silent. His voice breaks. “ _Tell me!”_

Then, she floats closer, the ice flitting about her like little butterflies—

And she raises her hands—

Holds them against his cheeks—

They’re warm, not cold, not deathly cold, but pulsing with life—

And suddenly—

It’s not Shiva in front of him.

It’s Luna.

His heart stops and he can’t breathe, raising his hands to hold hers. Gods, they feel so warm, like a furnace that shuts the cold away, just like the way her hands felt when she had healed him, the taste of life and so much _more,_ something primal and indescribably beautiful and—

It was love.

The realization is not surprising, like the endless sylleblossom fields behind her. She smiled, and Noctis feels it inside his chest.

And he understands, finally.

The reason he was brought back, and suddenly it’s flooding the caverns of his mind. The reason he’s breathing, the reason his heart is beating.

All throughout the storm, the crawling through the snow, the things he had to do to survive - all the sacrifices and the fucking cold, everything that had stood in his way to get home, to come back to the people that mattered, to the people he was now alive for, to learn and relearn everything about them—

To Prompto and his kindness and his fucking charm and the brightness that made him who he was—

To Iggy out there, and his steadfast faith in Noctis, always understanding, always at his back and holding him up, _always_ —

And to Gladio—

Who had learned to keep on with his heart long plunged into the ground, because Noctis had asked it of him. Who had learned to keep on with his memory on a dog tag against his chest, in every beat of his heart. Who had needed only a moment to look on Noctis and knew, right then and there, knew him better than Noctis even knew himself.

All this time, he had expected some overarching reason, some driving cause that kept him going. All this time, he had waited for the catch to come - to remind him of the price of the happiness and the life he had been robbed off. He hadn’t put a name to it - but it was what he had been looking for, in the fears of dying in the snow,  or when the barrel was pressed against his cheek. What was the price? He had thought. What did it mean to be alive?

Because living meant sacrifice - it’s all he’s known, all he’s learned to live for.

But maybe there was no reason, maybe there was no other fucking need when it comes to living, to breathing the air, to enjoying the touch of his Shield - his lover - and to be surrounded by the laughter of his friends. Maybe there is _no_ overarching cause. Maybe there is _no_ price. Maybe there is _no_ sacrifice. Maybe, what’s left to do is just to—

“Live.”

Luna whispers, her voice faint and melodic and full of so much _love -_ love and hope and faith and everything she believed in him, not even slipping, staggering, doubting, not even once. All the way until her calling was fulfilled, knowing that Noctis will do as he is tasked to do.

Noctis breathes in deep as the tears return.

“I know.” _Now._ It’s something he’ll never forget, for the rest of his fucking life.

Only one word now.

Live.

Just that.

Just live.

Nothing else, nothing more.

Breathe. Move forward.

Take one step, after the other.

One chance after the other.

Until the road ends.

Until the chances are spent—

And live.

She steps closer, the scent of sylleblossoms around him, dancing in the wind. His eyes close as he feels her lips against his forehead. His tears are hot on his cheeks.

Warmth.

Life.

Another chance.

And she’s gone, and so are the sylleblossoms, and the blizzard has past-

The Sword of the Father - held tight in the effigy's hands, the effigy in his image - gleams, and rusts, and freezes over, encased in ice and it  _shatters._ The last Royal Arm.

-And he hears the creaking of stone doors, and turns his head, and collapses into Gladio’s arms, into cedar and sandalwood, the warmth of home tight around him. His legs may have given up - he’s not really sure - but Gladio doesn’t let him fall, as the shuddering breath of relief runs from his Shield’s lips, down to Noctis’ very soul. The pulsing of the brand sinks deep and it wraps around his heart like a warm blanket, and he sighs, deeply and contentedly into his lover's chest. Citrus seeps through his skin and he feels the touch of another hand on his back, and he opens his eyes to peek into Prompto’s liquid blue-violet gaze, soft and gentle and everything important in the world was in him.

It was fine. He was fine. He’s okay. They’re all okay.

They’re all gonna be okay.

Then—

Faint, quiet—

But oh so familiar, where he thought it had been nothing but gibberish and hallucinations—

 

Shiva’s eldritch voice echoes in his mind, and out of his skin - from the mark on his chest - and all around them - almost sibilant, like smoke through a closed fist, like the daylight cutting through the curtains during the afternoon, like the fading petals of blue in the distance. Like she’s also disappearing, fading back into legend, back into the nether where they are all bound to go, to the ghosts of Luna and his dad and everyone who kept him standing tall, all the way from then to here to now—

_This is your world now._

 

∞

 

 

The wind is rushing through his hair, setting it aloft, but he doesn’t really mind. It’s been a while since he had felt like this - the sun beating on his bare skin, the wind in his face and the open, _endless_ road before him. The motion of the car’s wheels is steady, the grass and the trees speeding past them. The radio isn’t on, not that he really minds, the sound of the wind rushing through his ears was music enough. Near the bank on the west side, a pack of garula raise their heads to look at the speeding car but they make no move to attack. With the Starscourge gone, the once aggressive beasts have returned to their docile nature.

He hears a click, and turns his head back to watch Prompto lean over the side of the car’s backseat. Lake Cauthess shined in the distance, to the west.

“Hey,” Prompto begins, lowering his camera to turn to him. “After we meet with Iggy in Lestallum, what happens next?”

“Guess it’s up to Noct,” Gladio says, voice rumbling over the rushing wind, his hand on the wheel. Noctis turns to him, finds the man smiling - that tightlipped smile just for him, like a secret, their little thing - and he smiles back, ignores the click of the camera that he is pretty sure is directed at his lovestruck soppy ugly face.

He’ll find a way to steal that from Prompto later.

But for now—

He reaches over to hold the hand against the clutch, and twines his fingers with Gladio. The sunlight cuts through the clouds and bathes his skin in warmth, the Frostbearer’s mark gleaming on his chest, pulsing together with his heartbeat. There’s a shift from the back, and he turns to see Prompto sit in the middle, both his elbows by the headrests of the front seats, grinning at the two of them.

The sky was blue and fucking majestic, the birds chirping above. Lestallum - and Ignis - was in the distance, hurtling closer with each passing second.

It was a beautiful day.

The open road before them spoke of chances and new beginnings, of one word and four letters, spelled out in the lines of the snowflake on his chest. Live.

So many places to go, to visit; so many things to do and enjoy; so many memories he can go out and make, with his bestfriend in the back, the other in the city gearing towards them and the fucking love of his life in the driver’s seat, smiling at him with those perfect eyes. So many things, so many hours and minutes and years left, and, the years aren’t heavy on his shoulders - not anymore - and he’s not trudging through the snow, not alone, never again. The hand in his reminds him that he’ll never be cold, never be alone and that he’ll never have to let go again.

Everything else was finally up to him.

He was alive.

He was hopeful.

 

 

**FIN**

* * *

 

Finally  _finished_ that Gladio sketch. Tattoos are hard istg:

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's pretty much it for this story!
> 
> A few things here:  
> A. I hoped the little hints sprinkled along the story were set enough so that Shiva helping Noctis didn't just come entirely out of left field. Funny thing, what started this story for me is basically the ending scene. Noctis and his friends on a roadtrip again, but this time, there's no expiry date - and suddenly, I wrote the rest of the story around it.
> 
> B. Yes, the Astrals are gone. Man finally learns to stand by himself and move on. It's not a perfect world, but it was - is - their world. When the Astrals died, they left their blessings on Eos: Titan brought more lands from the sea, Leviathan nurtured the newly-formed lands to bring life to them. Ramuh calms the storms plaguing Duscae, Ifrit puts the Ravatogh to rest and Bahamut breathes that singular human will into those living. Shiva brings Noctis back to life in gratitude and love, as a final promise to Luna.
> 
> C. The ending sounds so vague and inconclusive? It's meant to be that way as I'm planning to write more for this fic's universe. I'm excited for the chocobros' relationships with the other characters during this fic's universe and I'm also tinkering around with an adventure fic for this universe -  
> which I also hinted here in the epilogue as a sort of foreshadowing thing lmao. Hopefully, you guys will love that as much as you loved this story!
> 
> A huge, gargantuan, colossal thank you to all of you who stuck by this story, loved and enjoyed it, cried at the sad parts and maybe hated me for the angsty ones lmao. This is the longest fic I've ever written, the first one where I'm 1000% emotionally invested on and just - it's been really really great, made me so fucking happy, bringing you guys along on this ride. So, yeah, thanks!

**Author's Note:**

> My first chaptered Older!GladNoct fic for XV! A new narrative for me, a bit more personal. I hope everyone enjoys the direction this fic is going. :)
> 
> Come scream at me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/_kd101994)!


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